Satin and Lace
by Snarkland78
Summary: When Molly Hooper discovers the body of her neighbor, she realizes people aren't what they seem. One year after Reichenbach Fall. SHERLOLLY.
1. Prologue

**DISCLAIMER: While I would LOVE to start a licensed roller derby team with the characters in this story, most of them are not mine. The characters in this story that you can find in your Sherlock Box Set are the property of Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I am not making any money, nor are they hocking my products (which I have none). I don't get anything from this except the pure enjoyment of writing! Everybody else is mine so… ok, I'll start a roller derby team with them. Thanks for reading!**

**This story is un-betaed. I do apologize for any problems this may cause.**

PROLOGUE…

The music throbbed as the woman circled her hips, inches from the rotund man's obvious erection. While it was quite clear where his thoughts were turned, her plastered smile and quick winks gave no indication of the woman's true thoughts.

"_It's just a job; that's all this is. All it ever is."_ That mantra probably didn't work for a lot of people but it seemed to keep Samantha, stage name Satin N. Lace, going.

As her hips moved, Satin calculated exactly how much of her mortgage this man's money will, and had, paid off. The man's hands lifted toward her generous, naked breasts but she smirked and grabbed them, pushing them to the cushions beside him. "Nah, ah…" Satin purred, turning so her naked bum caressed his erection, somewhat gagging at the slight wetness on his pants. "Georgie, you remember the rules. No hands." She turned back around and placed her foot on the cushion beside him. "The moment you touch, this dance is over…" The man's meaty, wet tongue left his mouth and licked his lips at the proximity of her naked core to his mouth. Of course he was too busy drooling to realize she was as dry as a bone. The man, just like all the others, revolted her.

His fee of $3k was the only spark of excitement in that room.

Thankfully, with a generous bend of her bum in his face, the dance was over. Samantha knew she would see him in two weeks. They had a standing appointment.

"Ohhh Saaatin…." Georgie groaned as he came, right there in his pants. Like he always did. Satin hid her shivers of disgust as she moved away. The sudden smell of his body odor and release overcame the room and she turned quickly toward the bathroom in the hallway hidden discretely behind Chinese screens. Satin had learned after the first dance to install outlet air fresheners to mask the disgusting essence of the insanely rich man; he was in prime nauseating form. Samantha shut the door, locking out the throbbing of muffled music, and promptly threw up. She gathered herself, cleaned up and wrapped herself in the black silk robe she kept behind the door. Just as she rounded the corner Samantha heard a man arguing with Georgie.

"Where's the money Georgie?"

"I don't have it! But give me a chance…" Georgie was desperately pleading with the newcomer whose back was to Samantha.

"No second chances Georgie. Falcon…" _Falcon? Samantha rolled the name around in her head for a moment, trying to remember where she had heard it._ "…gave you a week to come up with the money. That's more time than he gives most people."

"Falcon and I go way back. He set up my business here…"

"…and the Kansas City syndicate is very happy for your monetary assistance. But…" The man raised a gun, with an abnormally long barrel, to Georgie's head. "Sorry Georgie. That's really a shame for you. I've been authorized to kill you if you didn't have it."

"But…" POP! The rotund man's body fell to the floor with a thud and a squish. Quickly but calmly unscrewing what made the barrel abnormally long… _a silencer!_ Samantha thought, having seen enough crime television shows to know what a silencer was… the man carefully placed the gun and silencer in his pockets, then pulled something out of his pocket and dropped it casually on top of the body.

With what sounded like a snort (but Samantha couldn't determine from where she was hiding), the man sauntered out of the private room, easily finding the hidden door designed for discrete getaways. Not taking the time to wonder how he knew the layout of the building, she quickly followed him. Because the pulsating music from the other private rooms shook the walls, Samantha didn't, necessarily, have to be quiet in following the man. When he reached the door he calmly walked out into the humid Midwestern night. Samantha caught the door with her foot about four inches before it closed and caught sight of the man approaching a car half hidden in the shadows. Thankful for the full moon, Samantha had enough sense to catch the make and model of the car but not the look of the man. She then noticed an occupant in the front seat. It was clearly a man, given the built of the shadow, but she couldn't discern anything else about him.

Samantha quickly shut the door and ran for the cordless phone. Stepping closer to the body, she dialed three numbers then looked at poor Georgie. A look of confusion passed her face when she saw what the man dropped on the body. A feather. A falcon's feather to be precise. This high-paid stripper never realized that the PHD in Zoology she was working towards would come into play in a MURDER. _It must be a calling card._ Now Samantha wondered if she should've been a cop instead of an animal doctor.

"911. What is your emergency?"

SHERLOLLY***SHERLOLLY***SHERLOLLY

"It's done boss."

The occupant, who had been looking away while the man came back to the car, looked at the building. Narrowing his eyes he saw a shadow pass underneath the light above the door then the door shut.

"SHIT! Were you seen?"

"No."

"Somebody saw us."

"They couldn't have."

"Unless there's a ghost making shadows we've been seen." Boss turned to the man. "What the hell are you waiting for? Get us the fuck out of here!" With a squeal of tires (which, given the reputation of the strip club, wasn't unusual), the car raced out of the parking lot, just as the very distant wail of sirens cut through the night. "We've got to find out who that was. We could've been made."

"But…"

"Shut up moron. You will find out who that is. And you will kill them."

"Yes boss."

SHERLOLLY***SHERLOLLY***SHERLOLLY

13 YEARS LATER…

"Hello? Michelle? It's Molly Hooper." The pretty brunette smiled easily when she thought about her appointment to go shopping with her gregarious and fun-loving neighbor, Michelle Livingston. Molly had been pulling a lot of overtime at the hospital, where she worked as a pathologist, and had been looking forward to spending the afternoon with her friend. It was 11 a.m. and they were going to hit the shops on Oxford Street, a tony section of London. The practical pathologist saved up all year for this shopping trip, and she was bound and determined to find some great deals. Michelle, always one for shopping, agreed in a heartbeat when Molly asked for her company the week before. It was all the women could talk about, much to the chagrin of Michelle's loyal and somewhat longsuffering husband, Eric.

Frowning slightly when nobody answered, Molly tried the bell again. Still not getting a response, she knocked on the door before turning the knob, only to find it unlocked. This, in itself, wasn't unusual; she was constantly scolding Michelle about her habit of leaving her front door unlocked.

"_You're living in London now, Michelle, not Oklahoma. You can't leave doors unlocked here, like you did back home."_

_Michelle would sigh and nod. "I know, I know but old habits die hard. Besides, everybody I've met in London is so nice and eager to help."_

"_Shelly, I've seen enough at my job to know that people will do anything to anybody. Please be careful."_

"_Ok Molls. I'll be careful."_

On this day, when Molly crept into the house, something did not feel right. Tremors of apprehension ghosted down her back and she inadvertently wrapped her arms against the cold feeling. "Shelly? Are you here?"

Nothing was out of place; nothing seemed to be disturbed. It was simply eerily quiet. "Shelly?" Not finding anything amiss Molly took the stairs to the second floor. Molly had wished she could have the house the Livingstons had. It wasn't big but it wasn't small. As the Three Bears would pronounce, it was just right. Given that Molly lived in the small building of flats next door, anything would've been better than what she was currently living in. Brushing that aside she made it to the second floor and tripped on something. She gasped when she turned…

…and found Michelle Livingston lying on the landing of the stairs, her eyes and mouth open in fright, a nylon cord wrapped around her neck.

The terrified young pathologist pulled out her mobile and rang New Scotland Yard. "Greg? It's Molly Hooper."

DI Greg Lestrade instantly heard the panic in the young woman's voice. "Molls? What's going on? Are you ok?"

Molly instantly began screaming, "SHE'S DEAD! SHE'S DEAD! SHE'S DEAD!"

"MOLLY?!" Lestrade yelled before he heard a thump and the phone going dead.


	2. Chapter 1

**Thank you to everybody that is reading, following or who stumbled upon my little story. I really do appreciate it!**

**I will be posting a chapter every few days. This chapter doesn't lend much information to what actually happened with the crime so I will give you another chapter tomorrow, much earlier then I would have planned. The next one after that will probably be Saturday. Again thank you everybody!**

**DISCLAIMER: While I would LOVE to start a licensed roller derby team with the characters in this story, most of them are not mine. The characters in this story that you can find in your Sherlock Box Set are the property of Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I am not making any money, nor are they hocking my products (which I have none). I don't get anything from this except the pure enjoyment of writing! Everybody else is mine so… ok, I'll start a roller derby team with them. Thanks for reading!**

**This story is un-betaed. **

Chapter 1

_Molly instantly began screaming, "SHE'S DEAD! SHE'S DEAD! SHE'S DEAD!" _

"_MOLLY?!" Lestrade yelled before he heard a thump and the phone going dead._

If somebody had asked Dr. John Watson how his day was going, the man wouldn't have been able to truthfully answer the question. Because he didn't know. The only thing he could have truthfully said was that it was a day out of the Twilight Zone. It started when he came down for breakfast and found his roommate, Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, actually eating. Well, if you could call the noises emanating from his mouth sounds of a human eating. It sounded more like feeding time at Jurassic Park.

This, of course, took the doctor aback. Sherlock was a bean pole, a lean mean thinking machine, preferring to feed his brain instead of his body. After all, the consumption of food took time and energy away from, usually, solving a case. Casual dining was not in the man's social repertoire. Well, if he'd actually HAD a social repertoire it wouldn't have been there. So, the consumption of food typically signified something important. The end of a case usually. When John found him eating, he usually understood what preceded and/or precipitated it.

Basically, the Army doctor was at a complete loss as to why the man was eating.

And that explained away John's surprise to see, and hear, Sherlock munching on a crumpet. John's eyebrow rose as he took in the occasion. "You are eating?!"

Sherlock threw the man a quick look of annoyance over his shoulder then turned back to loudly munching on his food. "What's your point? Eating breakfast is quite common."

"Not for you." Sherlock ignored the comment and continued the loud carnivorous chewing (exactly how does one chew a crumpet loudly anyway?). John became even more confused as he continued to stare at Sherlock. And John finally realized why he was confused: he'd suddenly remembered that they didn't have a case, and hadn't had one, in several days. So why was he eating NOW?

Pre-Incident, (John referenced that particular event as 'The Incident' but he treats it very like 'The Situation That Shall Not Be Named'. It would seem the doctor still couldn't resolve the issues around that particular event.) Sherlock would act like a five year old whose favorite blankie was stolen when he was bored. Bored as in not having any cases and being stuck having to deal with real life. But now, post-Incident, Sherlock was more introspective, thinking a tic (but only a tic) longer before opening his mouth. To John it was weird and it felt wrong, like the earth was tilted off its axis in some bizarre fashion. John was about to open his mouth to comment when Sherlock's phone buzzed. The man in question didn't move an inch, didn't even flinch, except to continue his munching.

Rolling his eyes John picked up the phone from where it sat five inches from Sherlock's plate. "Lestrade! Do you have a case?"

"No. Is the jerk there?"

"Yes but what's going on?"

"It's Molly."

This startled John. That was the last thing he expected to hear coming from DI Lestrade. John looked at Sherlock. "What about Molly? Has something happened to her?"

Sherlock's chewing instantly stopped. He threw down the crumpet, stood up and took the phone, leaving John's mouth hanging wide open. "What about Molly?"

"I got a strange phone call from her."

"Well, what did she say?" His irritation was evident, startling the army doctor even more.

"She said, SHE'S DEAD! SHE'S DEAD! SHE'S DEAD! Then her phone went dead."

By then Sherlock was pacing, running his hand through his hair, the open dressing gown flapping around his pajama bottom legs. "Well, where is she?"

"We have no idea. She didn't tell us. We didn't have time to trace the call but we're starting with her flat…"

"Hang up and do your job. We'll meet you there." He clicked the phone off, threw it to John and then rushed to his bedroom.

"Sherlock? What's going on?"

"Hurry John." The shout he gave from the bathroom was frantic and startling. While it took John, once again, by surprise, he recognized it was a sign of a continually growing regard for the mousy pathologist who helped fake Sherlock's suicide (i.e. The Incident). John couldn't weasel the entire story from either one but Sherlock certainly handled Molly with kid gloves now. In fact, it had been a year since Sherlock was publicly pronounced alive and the situation between Sherlock and Molly was… interesting at best. While Sherlock became introspective and somewhat withdrawn around the woman, Molly grew a backbone and wouldn't let anything he said outwardly faze her. She was strong and she made sure that Sherlock saw that.

And he did; oh did he ever. And that was part of the problem.

And it explained the state Sherlock was currently in. Molly had become the one woman who'd weaseled her way under his skin (never mind The Woman; she was an intellectual challenge but she could never have become what Molly had) and he was reacting… well. He was reacting like a man in love. In their own ways, that gave both Holmes and Watson the shivers: Sherlock, involuntary arousing shivers; for Watson the heebie-jeebies, i.e. Twilight Zone, shivers.

Just as Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf, his phone rang again. He grabbed it from John. When he read the caller ID he was at first relieved then panicky. "Molly? Where are you? What's going on?"

"Sheeerlooock…" She moaned, tears choking her voice.

Sherlock bolted from 221B, barely giving John enough time to catch up with him. "Molly?" Sherlock asked again, this time in the softest voice John had ever heard from the fast-talking, loudly deducing detective. "Molly, where are you? What happened?"

Molly, soothed by his voice, sighed and hiccupped. "Michelle… Michelle is dead. I… I… I fainted after I tripped over her…" The recounting of the scene brought fresh tears to the young woman's eyes. "The… The look on her… her face…" Sherlock's heart gave an unexpected THUD at the fresh round of tears just beginning. The feeling was quite vexing, which only put Sherlock in a worse mood.

"What number Molly?"

"The house next door to my building… Number 82."

Sherlock knew which one Michelle was but he wasn't ready to get off the phone with her. He didn't want to leave her alone just yet. "The Smithsons, McGregors, Livingstons or Applethorpes?"

John threw him a confused look. "How did you…?" Sherlock waved him away as he waited for Molly's answer.

"Livingstons. Number 82." Molly repeated.

"We'll be there in 10 minutes." Sherlock hung up then, with clenched jaw, hailed a taxi in record time. Usually taxi drivers ignored the snarly intensive gaze of the consulting detective but there was a certain desperate look about the man that made him somewhat compelling. Once they got in Sherlock called Lestrade. "Molly rang me. She's at her neighbor's house, the Livingstons, Number 82. Michelle Livingston is dead." Sherlock rung off then turned the phone over and over again, his mind awhirl of thoughts.

"Sherlock?"

"I'm not answering any questions about Molly."

"But…?"

"Get your head out of what you think there is and concentrate on what there really is. Someone killed Michelle Livingston. Molly took a holiday from St. Bart's to go shopping with Michelle. They were going to…"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. So you keep Molly's social calendar now?"

"…Oxford Street. Molly goes there once a year as a treat for herself."

And John instantly recognized he wasn't going to get anything from the detective, at least right now. "You have a lot of explaining to do Sherlock," John muttered but Sherlock simply rolled his eyes.

SHERLOLLY**SHERLOLLY**SHERLOLLY**

When Molly heard the dial tone after Sherlock hung up, she stumbled down the steps and out the door. She simply could not stay in that house while her friend was lying dead on the stairs. The whole thing was completely baffling to her. Michelle Livingston was the last person Molly would ever suspect anybody would want to harm. Even when she had the occasional quarrel with her husband, they always made up right away. But to be strangled so senselessly like that… it seemed very clinical. And what was that clutched in her hand?

Molly heard the distinct sounds of approaching police sirens and with a heavy heart sighed with an almost infinite relief. Within minutes Lestrade stepped out of his car and wrapped the shaking young woman in his arms, his hands smoothing her long hair down her back. Molly finally completely broke down, great sobs rocking both her and the DI.

"Shhh…" He murmured but then stiffened.

"Molly…" Another voice broke through the din, sending another shock of panic pulsating through her already wracked nerves. "…Molly, what happened?"


	3. Chapter 2

**Thank you to everybody who is reading! I do appreciate your support!**

**Here's your next chapter. I won't post again until Saturday. Have a lovely week! **

**DISCLAIMER: While I would LOVE to start a licensed roller derby team with the characters in this story, most of them are not mine. The characters in this story that you can find in your Sherlock Box Set are the property of Steven Moffitt, Mark Gatiss and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I am not making any money, nor are they hocking my products (which I have none). I don't get anything from this except the pure enjoyment of writing! Everybody else is mine so… ok, I'll start a roller derby team with them. Thanks for reading!**

**This story is un-betaed. **

Chapter 2

_Molly heard the distinct sounds of approaching police sirens and with a heavy heart sighed with an almost infinite relief. Within minutes Lestrade stepped out of his car and wrapped the shaking young woman in his arms, his hands smoothing her long hair down her back. Molly finally completely broke down, great sobs rocking both her and the DI. _

"_Shhh…" He murmured but then stiffened._

"_Molly…" Another voice broke through the din, sending another shock of panic pulsating through her already wracked nerves. "…Molly, what happened?"_

Now Molly was mad. Mad at Michelle Livingston for dying on her. Mad at her for dying on their shopping day (_didn't she realize that Molly waited all YEAR for this?_). Mad at the killer for choosing that day to kill her. Mad at the killer for killing her in the first place.

But most of all Molly Hooper was mad at herself. She was mad at breaking down when she made herself swear that she wouldn't do that, particularly in front of Sherlock, the infuriating man asking her what had happened. ESPECIALLY in front of him. It had been a year since Sherlock was publically pronounced alive, and Molly had been tough. She hadn't made a fool of herself in front of him. She hadn't stuttered or stumbled over her words; she hadn't made assumptions of him or concentrated on those parts that always seemed to make her weak in front of him. No, she was impressive in her confidence.

Whatever confidence she'd built up since The Incident was seemingly torn down by all her blubbering and mess.

But maybe she shouldn't be quite so hard on herself. After all, she did just find her friend murdered in her home.

"What happened?" Molly's answer to the man standing behind her was to throw his question back at him. Her confidence was back, from where she didn't know, but perhaps not completely as she couldn't look at Sherlock at all. Molly stayed in Lestrade's arms, staring beyond his shoulder. "My friend's been murdered Sherlock. I've told you that. Go see for yourself."

"Stay here Molly," Lestrade said, handing her off to a friendly female police officer. Molly looked behind her to see Sherlock passing a quick look at her before stalking inside, his hands behind his great Belstaff coat, his head held up authoritatively. And this simply left the mousy pathologist as a pile of goo on the sidewalk.

Damn him. And damn her weakness.

SHERLOLLY**SHERLOLLY**SHERLOLLY**

Sherlock was frustrated. Molly didn't let him arrive at the crime scene with a clear head. If anything he was, reluctantly, preoccupied by thoughts of the woman whom he thought he'd observed and gleaned every possible scrap of knowledge from. Apparently he'd been wrong… and he'd been wrong for quite some time now. Every time he saw this woman she threw something new at him. Of course, if the man had been honest with himself, he'd have recognized how exciting and just how much the mystery thrilled him. At the same time he felt he'd failed all the years Pre-Incident. Sherlock should've seen something in all those years to hint at the woman now.

The woman now, slowly, excited that long-buried passion and, dear Lord, sentiment, which he'd kept locked away in the far off, rarely ventured to attic of his 'mind palace': that opulent place with many rooms to store the information relevant, well, what his mind coined as relevant, to his life. In the past year Sherlock was having more arguments with himself about what information was relevant and what information wasn't than he thought he'd ever have. To be honest he always assumed this mind was in league with the rest of his body; that, in fact, it overruled it. But his mind was turning on him; his mind was constantly expanding the room labeled 'MOLLY HOOPER'; it had even redecorated it into something he'd never wanted for a room.

Damn it; it was like his mind was in league with his heart. Sentiment.

And now, a year after Sherlock was proclaimed alive, Molly seemed to be taking up half a wing of a floor of his palace. Her room had started out the size of a broom closet.

Giving his mind first a kick to shake it out, then a slap and a warning to NOT turn into one of THEM (the average, feeling person), Sherlock followed Lestrade into the modest house. Taking his time eye sweeping the abode, he was surprised to find nothing out of the ordinary. It was a bit eclectic, a mixture of the old and the new, but very tasteful and surprisingly functional. He looked at the door, the knob and the lock; absolutely nothing out of place. While clearly not new it was in pristine condition. "The door wasn't forced. She either knew her killer or kept her door unlocked."

"For the sake of solving the crime I hope it's the first one," Lestrade said, his eyes taking in the room as well.

"Where was the body found?" John asked from behind Sherlock.

"Molly said the top of the stairs."

Sherlock sent the older detective a puzzled glance. "You haven't seen it yet?"

Lestrade shook his head. "I got here just before you did and went straight to Molly. Let's see what we have."

Sherlock, grateful yet horrified to find he was jealous that Lestrade got to Molly first, doubled his efforts to put any feelings he had aside to concentrate on the case. Halfway up the stairs he could see the body on the landing above him. His sharp, keen pale eyes took in everything around him, noting the expression on the woman's face; the way she was murdered and, most curiously, what was found clutched in the woman's hand. Sherlock's eyes crinkled with curiosity but he didn't say anything.

"Is that a feather?" John asked, his trusty blogger always one to, curiously, speak what was going on in Sherlock's brain without realizing it. That's what made their friendship such a great one. That and the fact that Watson actually put up with Sherlock's shit.

"More specifically a falcon feather."

Lestrade stared at the scene in confusion. "Just how did you know that was a falcon feather?" The look the consulting detective threw the professional detective irritatingly asked him why he asked such a stupid question. With a shake of his head Lestrade asked, "But why…?"

"I see no evidence of a bird in the home and falcons certainly aren't house pets. The feather is a calling card, which makes this a professional hit." Sherlock shook his head. "Either the killer found another way into the house or Michelle left the front door unlocked. We can ask Molly. She's her friend; she may know her security habits." For the next fifteen minutes, Sherlock and Watson roamed the second floor, then the first, looking around. None of the windows were forced and the sliding glass door in the back, which led to a small but well-kept garden, was bolted shut. There was no evidence of tampering. Finally, when the young men were through, Sherlock walked out the front door to find that Molly had gone back to her flat.

Sherlock easily located the correct flat. After all, he had spent three months after The Incident with her, in this tiny one bedroom abode. He hadn't been back since he left but what happened during those months took up a palace room, in and of itself. He realized he'd hurt her but he was determined not to address that. It was much easier to ignore it then deal with it.

Right?

John, following closely behind, was confused at his own surprise to see that Sherlock knew which flat was Molly's. It was Sherlock after all; he just seemed to know information without rhyme or reason. Given Sherlock's sudden tension, though, John couldn't help but wonder how Sherlock knew which flat was Molly's.

"Um, Sherlock, how did you know which flat is Molly's?" The man in question turned even further from John but mumbled something. "I'm sorry; I didn't catch that."

Sherlock knew John wasn't going to give up. He looked at his friend, his only friend in this big world. "I stayed with Molly for three months after I jumped."

John's eyes widened then he nodded. Ok, that made a lot of sense… "Well, that does begin to explain a whole lot…"

"A whole lot of… what?"

John, smirking, knocked on the door and Molly answered immediately. Before Sherlock could do anything John swept her into a comforting and massive hug, running his hand down her back. "How are you doing Molls?"

"Better now. Just…" Her words trailed off before they could break. "…I'm in shock. Who could do that to her? She was the kindest woman…"

"It was a professional hit."

"SHERLOCK!"

"What?!" Molly's astonishment covered her face as she turned to Sherlock. She was clearly bewildered. "A professional hit?" Sherlock nodded. "But why?"

"We couldn't find signs of a break in. Did she leave her doors unlocked?"

Molly sighed and nodded. "Michelle Livingston was an ex-pat who grew up in Oklahoma. She was so used to leaving her doors unlocked when she lived there that she never did it anywhere else, even when she went to university in Washington State. I kept scolding her about it. Shelly just said that old habits die hard." Molly covered her eyes. "This is all just too much…"

"An ex-pat? Is she married? Have children?"

"Yes. Eric Livingston. He is an executive with Future Now, a consulting company for nature and wildlife industries all over the world. He is gone a lot, travelling. They have a seven year old daughter, Stella. She's in school at the moment." Molly took a moment to study the detective then her eyes widened. "Could this have anything to do with his work?"

Sherlock tilted his head, pleased she made the connection. "Perhaps but it is too soon to tell. Stay here. Keep yourself safe."

"But you said it's a professional hit. Why would they be coming after me?"

"In case you saw something."

Molly shook her head. "I didn't see anything."

"Yes but they don't know that." Sherlock opened his mouth to say something else but, with a flick of his coat, he turned and stalked down the hall, leaving a bewildered army doctor and pathologist in his wake.


	4. Chapter 3

**Thank you everybody for reading, following and liking my story! Here's the next chapter. **

**DISCLAIMER: While I would LOVE to start a licensed roller derby team with the characters in this story, most of them are not mine. The characters in this story that you can find in your Sherlock Box Set are the property of Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I am not making any money, nor are they hocking my products (which I have none). I don't get anything from this except the pure enjoyment of writing! Everybody else is mine so… ok, I'll start a roller derby team with them. Thanks for reading!**

**This story is un-betaed. **

Chapter 3

_Sherlock tilted his head, pleased she made the connection. "Perhaps but it is too soon to tell. Stay here. Keep yourself safe."_

"_But you said it's a professional hit. Why would they be coming after me?"_

"_In case you saw something."_

_Molly shook her head. "I didn't see anything."_

"_Yes but they don't know that." Sherlock opened his mouth to say something else but, with a flick of his coat, he turned and stalked down the hall, leaving a bewildered army doctor and pathologist in his wake._

When John caught up with Sherlock he was standing in front of the house, surveying it. "What was that about, back there?"

"What was what?"

"You know, that?"

"Really John, don't be so vague. You of all people know how much I hate that." Sherlock pulled out his phone and began searching the internet. "A falcon's feather isn't common among contract killings."

"How often are calling cards, like feathers, mentioned in the media when reporting the story?"

Sherlock's fingers, while still moving, slowed a fraction. "Buzz kill."

John's eyebrow rose. "Did you just call me a buzz kill?"

"Ah-HA!" Sherlock's declaration was triumphant as he turned his phone to his friend. "A crime syndicate based out of Kansas City…"

"Where?"

"Oh do be serious! It's in the middle of the United States." Sherlock paused to read. "It's run by a shadowy figure…" His eyebrows rolled at the clichéd moniker. "…of whom nobody, not even the federal government, has been able to identify. He's called the 'Falcon' apparently. The feather is rather apropos then."

"Oh… a bit like Keyser Soze."

"Who?"

"Never mind. So he's a criminal of legendary, and even mythical, proportions, this Falcon? He rules by reputation only?"

"Appears so. I can only find two stories pertaining to a feather being left at a crime scene but only one taking place in Kansas City. The other seems to be a copy cat. How can he be this infamous and only have one verified murder originating from him?"

"Think this Falcon knows, or rather knew, Moriarty?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his friend then began walking again, this time surveying the area around the outside of the house. When he got to the side that faced Molly's flat building, he looked up and saw that Molly's flat faced the house. Sherlock hit a speed dial number. "Molly? Go to your window that faces the Livingston house." A moment later the woman, who looked a great deal calmer, opened the window and leaned out.

"What's going on?"

"Can you see into the Livingston house from your vantage point?"

Molly looked around, squinting and tilting herself to find the best angle. "No I can't."

"What else do you know about the Livingstons?"

"I'm coming down."

With a curt nod Sherlock turned and leaned against the house. He was ashamed to admit his mind wasn't fully on the case. When she emerged, Molly stopped in front of Sherlock. "What else do you need to know? I told you where they are from and what Eric does."

"Anything else?"

"Well. Let's see." Molly stood beside Sherlock, leaning against the house, as John watched them both carefully, taking mental notes. "They moved into that house five years ago. Michelle was originally from Tulsa, Oklahoma, and met Eric eight years before they moved in beside me. She'd worked previously with the Tulsa Zoo, and now does, well did, part time consulting for the Zoological Society of London."

"So they both work with animals?"

"Well the industry anyway. That was how they met. Eric's originally from Seattle. He worked with the fish and wildlife societies up there and met Michelle at the University of Washington in Tacoma, where she was studying to work in wildlife conservation. Eric did a fellowship with the Aquatic and Fishery Sciences department there."

"Michelle seems rather old to have been at University."

"Well, she was working her way through school. She started late and did what she could with the resources she had. Eric's a genius in his field and has become highly regarded and published."

"So he holds a doctorate?" Molly nodded. Sherlock studied her.

"But I thought she worked for the Tulsa Zoo?"

"After they married she worked with him and his research but would, occasionally, travel to Oklahoma to supervise the installations of new exhibits and improvements to existing exhibits. She was more of a consultant with the Tulsa Zoo than actual employee."

"So Eric and Michelle Livingston lived in Washington before they came to London?"

Molly nodded. "Michelle said she moved to Tacoma in 1998 but had worked at the Tulsa Zoo before moving out of state. She kept in contact with her friends there during her time in Washington, and even after they moved to London she would meet up with them several times a year, when they would go back and visit family."

"How do you know so much about this family?"

"Michelle is.. was… a talker. I mean, if you gave her wine she went on and on about her life. I think I know more about her and Eric than she knew about me."

Molly could see his brain racing to process all the information. With a quick nod he turned on his heel and went back to the front of the house. John sighed and shrugged. "Molly, I think he's concerned. I'm sure the killer or killers are long gone by now but you were the one to find the body." She nodded quickly and John hesitated with his words. "Sherlock told me he stayed with you, after The Incident…"

"JOHN!" The bellow echoed through the neighborhood, prompting an eye roll from both Molly and John.

"…and that answers a lot of questions about his general mood and behavior the past year. If you ever feel like you want to…"

"No, I don't want to talk about it. If I wanted to talk about it…"

"JOHN! I CAN HEAR YOU!"

"…I would've talked about it long before now. So please do us both a favor and keep your bloody arse out of our business!" With a sharp turn Molly stalked back to her flat, leaving a bewildered, and somewhat saddened, army doctor rooted in his spot.

SHERLOLLY**SHERLOLLY**SHERLOLLY

The man stepped inside the car and quickly finished sending the text he'd been writing when the car pulled up. He looked up to watch the late afternoon London traffic from their vantage point of the hotel's car park. He then turned to the man behind the rented car. "So it is done?"

"Yep."

"Any witnesses?"

"Nope."

"That Hooper woman?"

"She wasn't home. I made sure of it. I rang her bell and nobody answered. I cased the block. I got away cleanly. The Hooper woman didn't arrive home until an hour later." The other man nodded and smiled. His phone dinged with a text alert. He looked down to read the one word text:

**YES**

The man hastily sent a reply then went back to studying the busy London day. They were safely on the other side of the city. With a nod the man pulled the car into late afternoon London traffic. "I should've handled Georgie myself; then we wouldn't have gone through all this trouble."

"Oh but think of all the progress we made."

"Very true. It was a stroke of luck, Camel. We wouldn't have had an in without the stripper. It would've made everything that much more difficult."

The man shrugged. "Maybe you're right. But you would've found a way, Falcon."

"I don't know. I never thought it would be this difficult to get this deep into the Witness Protection Program. I would've thought more agents could have been bought."

"At least the ones you couldn't buy, you made their deaths look like accidents."

Falcon smiled. "I am very good at that."

"But what do we do now?"

"We did what we came to London to do. We got rid of Satin. Our enterprise has been established. The contacts are in place. All we need are the highest bidders and the witness of their choice is exposed and eliminated. But The Satin Issue needed to be resolved."

"And Eric Livingston? What about him?"

Falcon turned to look out the window. He loved a foreign city; it gave such rich opportunities not only to hide in plain sight but to scout for potential targets (err… customers) for his growing enterprise. "Tomorrow he will be taken care of. Mother always stressed how important it was to clean up after yourself. I am cleaning house. He will no longer be a problem."

"And the little girl?"

Falcon shook his head. "We do not touch children. People who harm children are animals. She will be cared for." This made Camel's eyebrow rise but nothing else was said about the issue.

Camel studied the traffic then looked over at Falcon. "But why kill Satin? We had control of her. She wouldn't have been a problem."

"Perhaps but I thought we had Georgie under control and look what happened there?" Falcon paused. "No, with Satin still alive there was always a chance that everything would blow up in our faces. Now I need all the information you can get me on this detective friend of Hooper's. This Sherlock Holmes."

"Sherlock Holmes? What kind of a name is that?"

"How the hell should I know? This is England for Christ's sake."

"But why do you need information on Sherlock Holmes?"

"I have been informed that he is a brilliant detective. He solves cases others cannot. He will be a problem."

"But how? You are virtually anonymous."

"Do you trust me Camel? And my decisions?"

Camel nodded. "Yes. I always have. You seem to know before anybody else that something will happen. You are always prepared."

"Yes. And I know this." Once Camel stopped at a traffic light Falcon turned his phone around to show him the texting he just finished. "The Hooper woman has called him. He's on the scene now, investigating. I must always be prepared. ALWAYS be prepared. So…" Falcon paused in thought. "Is Angie back in Britain?"

Camel nodded again. "He got back in last night."

"Good. Call him. Arrange a surprise for Miss Hooper tonight. But don't kill her. We will need her for leverage. And don't wait." Falcon paused again. "I am not surprised she called Holmes. She's in love with him you know."

"And how do you know that?"

Falcon simply smiled.


	5. Chapter 4

**Many, MANY thanks to everybody who read, favorited and left messages. I really, REALLY appreciate it! I am having so much fun writing this story that it should be illegal. And for those who left me messages about Keyser Soze, we haven't heard the last of him. He will pop up again in later chapters. Yep… plural! Thanks again!**

**I was going to wait until tomorrow to post this but I couldn't wait to share it. **

**DISCLAIMER: While I would LOVE to start a licensed roller derby team with the characters in this story, most of them are not mine. The characters in this story that you can find in your Sherlock Box Set are the property of Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I am not making any money, nor are they hocking my products (which I have none). I don't get anything from this except the pure enjoyment of writing! Everybody else is mine so… ok, I'll start a roller derby team with them. Thanks for reading!**

**This story is un-betaed. **

Chapter 4

_Now I need all the information you can get me on this detective friend of Hooper's. This Sherlock Holmes." _

"_Sherlock Holmes? What kind of a name is that?" _

"_How the hell should I know? This is England for Christ's sake." _

"_But why do you need information on Sherlock Holmes?" _

"_I have been informed that he is a brilliant detective. He solves cases others cannot. He will be a problem."_

"_But how? You are virtually anonymous."_

"_Do you trust me Camel? And my decisions?" _

_Camel nodded. "Yes. I always have. You seem to know before anybody else that something will happen. You are always prepared."_

"_Yes. And I know this." Once Camel stopped at a traffic light Falcon turned his phone around to show him the texting he just finished. "The Hooper woman has called him. He's on the scene now, investigating. I must always be prepared. ALWAYS be prepared. So…" Falcon paused in thought. "Is Angie back in Britain?" _

_Camel nodded again. "He got back in last night."_

"_Good. Call him. Arrange a surprise for her tonight. But don't kill her. We will need her for leverage. But don't wait." Falcon paused again. "I am not surprised she called him. She's in love with him you know." _

"_And how do you know that?" _

_Falcon simply smiled. _

That night, after Sherlock and John left; the body was taken away; the crime scene was locked up and a guard was posted at the Livingston's door, Molly laid in her darkened bedroom, listening as the noises of the city faded with the daylight. To be honest she didn't know what to make of her current situation. Well, alright, there really wasn't a 'situation' for her but she felt like she was in one, all the same. Her friend thrust her in the middle of something, just from the sheer fact that she was dead.

Suddenly Molly felt a presence; it was the same presence she felt whenever she would wake up and find Sherlock in her room. It happened quite a bit in that time after Sherlock jumped. "Sherlock? Why don't you ever knock? Why do you simply sneak in and scare the shite out of me?"

"You're thinking. Stop thinking and go to sleep."

"What are you going to tell John?"

"There's nothing to tell him. I spent three months hiding in your flat and then I didn't. You went to work and I stayed here, working to bring down Moriarty's network. That's it."

She didn't believe him. Molly wasn't stupid; she'd seen the change in him. "Easy for you to forget that we spent the last month of your stay screwing our brains out…"

"Oh Molly, there's no need to be vulgar."

Now Molly was pissed off. Sitting up she turned on the light to find him sitting in what seemed to be his favorite chair, in the corner of her bedroom. She had found him sitting there often enough. Crossing her arms over the oversized t-shirt that doubled as her sleep nightie, she glared at the detective. The man in question was thoroughly enjoying the picture the pathologist made: hair rumpled from nervous tossing; eyes narrowed and flashing; cheeks flushed. _What is this woman doing to me?_ "Vulgar?! I'm not the one pretending that nothing ever happened, yet acting like you want it to happen again. I'm not an idiot…"

"I never thought you were…"

"…so stop treating me like one. I have eyes. I can see you, Sherlock, even while you are camping in that vast no-man's land of Denial."

"I thought that was a river in Egypt."

"Oh for Christ's sake…" she got out of the bed and grabbed his coat collar, pulling him out of the chair. "I think you should leave now."

"What happened to you? Where is the meek pathologist I am used to?"

"You happened to me."

His pale eyes tried to meet hers but she simply couldn't look him in the eye. "Molly, every characteristic of your personality indicates that you become even more meek and clumsy when embarrassed or hurt. But that hasn't happened. You became strong and, dare I say, a bit ballsy. How is that possible?"

Molly's eyes flashed. "Could it mean that I'm not hurt? That I'm just really, really pissed off?"

"Not possible. This level of contention towards me could only mean I deeply hurt you."

"Fantastic. NOW he claims to understand human emotions," She rasped to nobody in particular. Molly looked at him. "Fine. You want to know what happened to me? A virus called 'Shite from Sherlock' happened. It completely rewired me. Go look it up; I'm sure there are many documented cases." Molly pushed him out of the bedroom toward her front door. "Now please go. You have a mystery to solve. Work on that."

"Not really. It was a contract hit. I don't work on hit cases. There's nothing interesting about them."

"But this is Michelle. Michelle would never get mixed up in anything like that."

"People would surprise you." He paused then looked out the window that faced the Livingston house. "The majority of contract killings are men with obviously crooked dealings." He looked back at her. "You say she wouldn't have been involved in something crooked?" Molly shook her head. "Fine. But you do realize that I have to investigate your friend; you might not like it if something comes up negative about her or her family."

Now Molly was astonished. "What?"

Sherlock looked back through the window. "When you think about it, seemingly normal forty-something women, living in Britain, don't get bumped off by criminals based out of somewhat obscure cities in the United States." He looked back at her. "Might not be so boring after all." He smirked and, much to Molly's chagrin, she was a bit relieved that the Sherlock she knew (and reluctantly loved) was still there, somewhere, even if the flames of his fiery words had been tamed, just a bit, at least toward her.

She threw him a confused look. "But why are you willing to investigate anyway? You were just going to let it go."

Sherlock gave her a searching look, his eyes roving her body, taking a few extra milliseconds to concentrate on the bare legs underneath her shorts, then turned and left her flat.

Now Molly knew she wasn't getting any sleep that night.

SHERLOLLY***SHERLOLLY***SHERLOLLY

John was awoken by a large annoying… something… physically pushing him out of his bed. And out of his latest dream about Mary Morstan the new Customer Service Representative (as they liked to be called) at the local Tesco. She was the woman who helped him with his latest fight with the chip-and-pin machine. Seriously, why didn't he just carry cash? He was simply awful with those machines. But if the public humiliation meant a possible date with the lovely Miss Morstan, who was he to argue?

"Wha… wha…? Sherlock! What do you want?" John grunted as he flailed underneath the sheets that went tumbling atop him as he went flying to the floor. He groaned when, finally finding the end of the sheet, he saw the huge "3:37" and the AM button illuminated on his digital alarm clock. "It's 3:30 in the bloody morning. This had better be good."

"Why would a woman, in her forties, get whacked by a professional killer?"

John's eyebrow rose with his use of 'whacked'. He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it even further. "You're the Great and Powerful Oz. You must have all the answers inside that expensive coat of yours. You tell me." John's yawn echoed through the room.

"She either did something or she saw something."

"You seem to be doing very well on your own. Run with that. I'm going to sleep." John gingerly stood up but it wasn't enough as his foot became entangled in the sheets and he went face first back into the floor.

"John, stop wasting time and listen to me."

Keeping the breadth of rather blue expletives confined in his brain, John finally managed to stand up. "You really aren't going to leave are you?"

Sherlock ignored him and let his mind finish his deducting. "But how does a woman from Seattle get hit by somebody from Kansas City, in London of all places?"

"Perhaps it's a copy cat? You mentioned finding a copy cat case."

"Hmmm…" Sherlock, really not paying any attention to his surroundings, sat down on John's bed. John could swear he could hear his brain whirring. It sounded a bit like the whirring a computer makes when it burns DVDs.

"Great. I'm not getting any sleep." John untangled himself completely from his sheets and went downstairs to the kitchen, loudly banging the kettle on the stove. John turned to see Sherlock behind him. The detective's brow was furrowed and his fingers were steepled underneath his chin. A sudden idea came to John; from where it sparked he didn't know but he had a feeling it was genius. He mulled it over for a bit which was always smart; Dr. John Watson had been burned, one too many times, by Sherlock Holmes and His Acidic Tongue when John quickly suggested something Sherlock deemed royally stupid. "While you are watching crap telly, I am watching good movies. Like The Fugitive. Have you ever seen The Fugitive?"

Sherlock's eyebrow rose. "What do you think?"

"In The Fugitive a wrongfully convicted man is on the run. A United States Marshal is assigned to bring him back."

"So?"

"The US Marshal brings to mind another movie. Eraser with Arnold Schwarzenegger."

"What does the adulterous Governor of California slash mediocre movie hero got to do with this case? And you REALLY need to watch crap telly. It makes more sense than those horrible movies. Next you're going to tell me that some villain in Star Trek reminded you of the way I look or talk or some such nonsense." Sherlock was clearly ready to walk out of the room and away from such nonsense.

"Eraser is about a woman in the United States Federal Witness Protection Program, which is run by US Marshals." John paused, smiling because he knew what Sherlock would do with the information he said next. "Did you know that the United States Federal Witness Protection was established in the 1970s to protect witnesses in organized crime cases? It really is quite an interesting history. It's amazing what information you pick up when you aren't watching crap telly." John smirked when he saw that Sherlock was truly digesting what he was saying. To John it was sheer poetry when he could point out information that Sherlock himself hadn't thought of. Or at least information Sherlock hadn't voiced; John would count that one as well. Actually, watching Sherlock digest information he hadn't readily considered was more like watching a shooting star: it was beautiful, poetic in its execution but over way too quickly. Not to mention extremely rare. To say that John wasn't savoring it would be a bold faced lie. "What if Michelle Livingston was in the Witness Protection Program and The Falcon found her?" Sherlock cocked his head to the side, his eyes wildly scanning the room, moving information around in his head. John imagined if he had a white board, like that doctor on that television show, he would have used it. "And what if, say, Michelle Livingston wasn't really from Oklahoma and never worked at a zoo, instead working at a strip club called The Midnight Call in Kansas City? And what if she witnessed a murder that necessitated her entry into the Witness Protection Program?"

Sherlock did his best to cover how bruised his ego became from watching his friend, NOT the World's Only Consulting Detective, put together some crucial puzzle pieces. Instead he sighed. "Bloody hell. That means a call to Mycroft."


	6. Chapter 5

**Once again, thank you SO. MUCH. for reading my little story. **

**Now, how would you folks like a new chapter? Here you go!**

**DISCLAIMER: While I would LOVE to start a licensed roller derby team with the characters in this story, most of them are not mine. The characters in this story that you can find in your Sherlock Box Set are the property of Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I am not making any money, nor are they hocking my products (which I have none). I don't get anything from this except the pure enjoyment of writing! Everybody else is mine so… ok, I'll start a roller derby team with them. Thanks for reading!**

**This story is un-betaed. **

Chapter 5

"_What if Michelle Livingston was in the Witness Protection Program and The Falcon found her?" Sherlock cocked his head to the side, his eyes wildly scanning the room, moving information around in his head. John imagined if he had a white board, like that doctor on that television show, he would have used it. "And what if, say, Michelle Livingston wasn't really from Oklahoma and never worked at a zoo, instead working at a strip club called The Midnight Call in Kansas City? And what if she witnessed a murder that necessitated her entry into the Witness Protection Program?"_

_Sherlock did his best to cover how bruised his ego became from watching his friend, NOT the World's Only Consulting Detective, put together some crucial puzzle pieces. Instead he sighed. "Bloody hell. That means a call to Mycroft." _

Mycroft groaned when his emergency line rang. It was approaching 4 am and he was never a happy early riser. But, as he was a small corner of the British government, he had quickly become programmed to sleep lightly. Rolling over he let out a string of expletives when he saw the caller. As he knew which case Sherlock was working on, Mycroft was a bit curious about why he would call.

"Sherlock, it's 4 in the bleeding morning."

"No. It's 3:49 in the bleeding morning."

Mycroft suddenly remembered to employ the deep breathing exercises Anthea, his personal assistant, showed him. It usually worked. Either it was too early in the morning or Mycroft was too wound up because it didn't seem to be working that morning. But it did give him a moment before blowing his fuse. Taking another deep breath, Mycroft plastered on a smile and asked through clenched teeth, "What do you want dear brother?"

"Is the British government informed when the US Federal Witness Protection Program relocates people to the UK?"

"Not necessarily. It's considered a favor when they are relocated here, and the Yanks know they owe us one. What does that have to do with the Livingston case?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Don't be surprised I called. A professional hit? A falcon's feather left at the crime scene? It reeks of government involvement. Somewhere."

Mycroft cringed. "Don't use the word 'reek'. It's so common. And middle class."

"Well you REEK of aristocracy. I can smell your REEKAGE all the way through the phone."

Mycroft sighed. Why did he even try? "So what do you want?"

"I want you, with all the power of your 'minor' position in the British government, to find out if Michelle Livingston was in the Witness Protection Program."

"Why would you think she was? Why not the husband? Or perhaps both?"

Sherlock's mouth dropped with shock. "I will pretend you didn't ask something that stupid. You really aren't at the top of your game when you are awakened rather rudely." Sherlock had one whopper of a smirk on his face when he said that. "Professional killers are very clean in their business. It's more likely that Falcon killed the protected witness before he finishes with the rest of the family. It's very efficient that way."

"True but brother dear, you would be surprised how often those closest to the intended victim are eliminated before the initial target is taken out. It proves to be quite the effective psychological tool against the target."

Sherlock was silent for a moment. He knew that Mycroft was right in that assessment but he also knew his reasoning was sound in this particular case. While he wasn't about to call it a 'gut feeling', it was still a knowing, one that he had repeatedly listened to and one that had served him well many times over. "Fine. Investigate them both. But I am positive Michelle Livingston was the intended victim."

Mycroft, certainly not in the mood to argue with Sherlock, rudely rung off (which brought a slight smile to the older brother's face) and fell back in the bed with a sigh. He was getting rather tired of babysitting his younger brother but this case was proving to be more interesting than he first surmised. Still, Mycroft really did need to have a talk with Mummy, once again, about why they had to have another child… and why it had to be Sherlock.

SHERLOLLY***SHERLOLLY***SHERLOLLY

As John finished with the tea, Sherlock began researching the one unsolved murder where a falcon's feather was left on the scene. But the news stories were of no help. A witness was listed but no information was given. No murder weapon was found. The CCTV footage from that night was inexplicably erased. The story reeked (Sherlock smiled. _Take THAT you pompous twit._) of a cover up which only intrigued Sherlock even more.

He then Googled 'Midnight Call', the name of the strip club the victim, Georgie Callivario, was murdered at. It was destroyed in a fire (an unsolved fire, Sherlock discovered) several years after the hit. Upon further research, Sherlock discovered Midnight Call was owned by The Nestling Corporation. "Oh Falcon, don't tell me you are THAT transparent." Sherlock picked up his phone again and hit speed dial.

"Two calls in twenty minutes. You must be desperate."

"Mycroft, not now. I also need as much information as you can give me on the George Callivario murder. Kansas City murder in 2000 at a strip club called the 'Midnight Call'. It was owned by the Nestling Corporation."

Sherlock could hear Mycroft sneering on the other end of the call. "Georgie Callivario? What kind of a name is that?"

"How the bloody hell should I know? It's America for Christ's sake."

"Sherlock. Don't swear." Sherlock opened his mouth to let loose a string of expletives just to rile his brother but Mycroft stopped him. "Is the Nestling Corporation one of Falcon's businesses?"

Sherlock's eyebrow rose. "You have been busy this morning." He paused. "Why are you so eager to help?"

"Dear brother…" Mycroft's tone was one of a patient sensei whose star pupil asked an extremely stupid question. "...need I really answer that question?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and hung up the phone. "What are you thinking Sherlock?" John asked as he brought the tea into the sitting room.

"It's certainly a professional hit. Factually I am unclear as to who the intended target is. But I just know…"

"You just know that it was Michelle." Sherlock nodded, his hands gripping his hair as if to physically pull something out of his brain. "I know you listen to that gut instinct more than you admit. It's alright Sherlock. I won't tell anyone."

Sherlock pretended to ignore him but he shoved that information into a corner of his mind palace to think upon later. "John, professionals are very thorough with their cleaning. The husband and the daughter are both in danger. We need to find Eric Livingston. I wouldn't be surprised if he was targeted next. Where's the daughter?"

"I believe I heard Lestrade mention that she was picked up from primary and taken to the police station. Nobody seems to know of any other family in the UK. She may be shuttled back to the States."

"I will tell Lestrade to keep her in protective custody until the threat is over. She could be a witness and it's very likely they will come after her."

John paused before saying, "If they are effective, that means they will want to get rid of witnesses. This definitely includes Molly, as she not only was friends with the family but found the body. What are we going to do about her?"

"Hmmm…" Sherlock muttered but didn't look at him. "…I had been thinking about that. She shouldn't be alone."

"We should talk to Lestrade. Perhaps he has an extra room for her?"

The look Sherlock shot him took Watson off guard. "She is NOT staying with Lestrade."

"Why not? They are friends and he is the police. You trust him."

"Not with her." Sherlock shot out of his seat and went straight for his violin, picking up the bow and swinging it around as he paced. He turned to his friend, his best friend, and pinned him with a point of the bow. "Did you see the way he was looking at her at that Christmas Party? Like he would…" But he trailed off, leaving John grinning.

"You can't even hide it now. It's love isn't it?"

"I wouldn't be surprised is Eric Livingston is already dead. We have to find him though." He dialed Lestrade, leaving John shaking his head over his idiocy. "Blast! Voice mail. Doesn't anybody work?"

"Not at 4:14 in the morning."

"If they find Livingston dead it's your fault."

"But, really, I think Molly and Greg make a very handsome pair. He's pretty and she's brilliant." John's smile widened as his prey took the bait. Sherlock's jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed. With a sweep of the bow, he began sawing the violin loudly, making John cringe. During a break between long, forlorn violin moans, John's cell phone rang.

"Molly? What is it?" Sherlock stopped playing and John finally saw a way to get him to stop any annoying habit: pull out his phone and act like Molly was calling. Of course she really was calling but it gave him something to use in the future…

He heard a whimper then a whispered, "There's somebody here."

"What do you mean there's somebody there?"

Molly's whispers were frantic. "In the flat. I heard them."

"Where are you?" Sherlock went to take the phone but John only glared at him then hissed, "Call the police. Somebody's in Molly's flat."

"Let me talk to her."

"NO! Call the police. NOW." Sherlock must've recognized the need to actually follow instructions and simply did as he was told. John turned to his phone. "Ok, Molly. Where are you now?"

"In my bedroom cupboard. I hear them walking…"

"Did you call the police?"

"Yes, before I called you."

"Sherlock and I are on our way. Hang on…" John suddenly heard the phone being jostled then a shriek. "Molly? MOLLY?"

The last thing John heard was Molly screaming, "HEEEELP!"

**A/N:** **I honestly don't really know how the Witness Protection Program works; I'm not in it myself. And I certainly don't know what happens should a witness go into hiding in another country but for the sake of this story, what I wrote is correct. Just thought I would put this disclaimer out there. Thanks again!**


	7. Chapter 6

**DISCLAIMER: The characters in this story that you can find in your Sherlock Box Set are the property of Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I am not making any money, nor are they hocking my products (which I have none). I don't get anything from this except the pure enjoyment of writing! **

**This story is un-betaed. **

Chapter 6

"_Sherlock and I are on our way. Hang on…" John suddenly heard the phone being jostled then a shriek. "Molly? MOLLY?"_

_The last thing John heard was Molly screaming, "HEEEELP!"_

The door to the cupboard flung open and Molly was yanked out by an impressively large man. That was all she could make out in the shadows of her bedroom. "Molly? MOLLY?"

"HEEEEELP!" Molly shrieked as she dropped the phone. This only made the impressively large man grunt with anger. He dragged her toward the front door of the flat but Molly, remembering she'd left the windows open as it had been a somewhat humid evening, yelled at the top of her lungs, "SOMEBODY HELP ME! TOP FLAT! I'M BEING KIDNAPPED!" The impressively large man grunted again then punched her across the mouth, splitting open her lip, cutting her jaw with a hard object (most likely a ring but she couldn't see anything) and sending her head whipping back.

Molly had the overwhelming panicky feeling she was running out of time. But she hadn't run out of adrenaline. She could feel the chemicals pulsing through her body. With as clear of a head as a woman who'd just been punched had, she threw herself, with all of her strength, against the bottom half of the impressively large man (seriously, the guy could have been a tree). While she was very petite, she certainly had the element of surprise on her side, which sent him falling.

And, as luck would have it, as he fell he cracked his head on the corner of a bookcase, knocking the impressively large man unconscious and slumped on the floor. Molly jumped up and assumed a pseudo ninja position, in case he should make any sudden movements, but the guy was clearly not going anywhere. At first she was afraid she killed him. Not that she would have mourned him or anything but the paperwork alone would have been a hassle. Bending over she took his pulse and sighed with relief. He had a heartbeat.

She ran to her bedroom and picked up her phone, to find that John had hung up. She called him again. "John?"

"Molly! Wha…" She could hear a scuffle over the phone but the second person clearly won. "Molly? Is he still there? Where is he?"

"Sherlock! I knocked him out!"

"You did what?"

"He's unconscious in my sitting room. Hurry!"

"We're on our way." Molly hung up and sighed with relief when she heard sirens. Running out of the flat she saw Lestrade running up the stairs. "He's in there."

"Molly? What the hell is going on? And haven't we already done this bit before?" Molly smirked but winced at her cracked lip, laceration from what looked to be a hard object and rapidly swelling jaw. He narrowed his eyes at her face, frowning at the blood and swelling. He rested his hand lightly against her cheek as he studied her. "Did he hit you?"

"Yes but…" She quickly told him what happened.

"We're gonna have to take him to hospital."

"I know but Sherlock's gonna want to know who he is. At least search him for identification."

Lestrade's eyes widened. "Oh for God's sakes, he's turning you into him. Whatever you do, resist him. In fact, never look him in the eye again. That's how he ensnares you…"

Molly forgot how much it hurt to smile and groaned when her mouth hurt too much to move. "He's this way…" She led the detective and two other uniformed police officers to the room, where the man hadn't moved. She turned on the light and got her first good look at the man. And yes, he was impressively large and yes, could have impersonated a mighty oak tree.

"Damn, that is one huge bloke." The ginger patrolman commented, his mouth hanging open as he looked down at the very muscular, dark haired man with a goose egg on his forehead and pissed off look on his face.

"Exactly what I thought as he was pulling me out of the cupboard to take me God knows where." Molly said. She was starting to get really, really irritated. By this time the flat was swarming with coppers and she was in her nightie. It was an oversized t-shirt that read 'Talk Nerdy to Me' but if she turned just right her bum was on display, for all the world to see. And she was wearing her granny panties. A burst of relief shot through her that she at least WAS wearing panties.

UGH. And Sherlock would be at her flat. For the second time that evening… now morning.

This night, err, morning, couldn't have gotten any worse.

Granted, Sherlock had already seen her night wear (actually he'd seen the Full Monty on more than several occasions) that evening but she'd shucked her shorts when she went back to bed. "Greg, I'm just going to go change before…" She suddenly heard footsteps, footsteps she'd know from anywhere. Oh damn, she was too late. Sherlock came bursting through the door, his eyes dancing with anxiety. When he saw Molly she could see him settle down but he was all business.

"That's the second time you've called us with an emergency in less than 24 hours. Some would say a cry for attention?" His eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched as he took in her physical damage, then he gave the rest of her body a more thorough examination, his nostrils flaring at her bare legs. When he returned his eyes to her face, he leaned forward and moved to touch her face carefully but stopped. Sherlock cleared his throat and stuck his hand behind his back. "So where is he?"

"How could you miss him? He's the felled tree in the middle of the sitting room. Follow the trail of coppers." She pointed to the swarm of people around the unconscious man. "Sherlock, I stopped them from taking him to hospital so you can search him for anything but you better hurry. I don't think we want to be around when he wakes up." Molly looked at John who was studying her face.

"Ouch. That looks rather nasty," He pointed to the injuries on her face. "Can I take a look?"

"Yes but I need to change clothes. I'm in my nightie." Sherlock cleared his throat at that but didn't look up from his examination of the man on the floor. Molly sighed and went to her bedroom.

SHERLOLLY***SHERLOLLY***SHERLOLLY

After a quick but thorough investigation, Sherlock didn't find anything on the man except a gun, a silencer (not attached), some plastic handcuffs and a handkerchief doused with some sort of drug to knock her out. "There's nothing. No identification. He didn't come to kill her though."

"Are you done?" Lestrade asked and Sherlock gave him a quick nod. The man was quickly loaded onto a gurney, where he was promptly handcuffed and taken to the waiting ambulance. Lestrade turned back to Sherlock. "He looks professional. Who are these people and why are they targeted?"

"I've got Mycroft working on it but…" Sherlock turned to see Molly entering the room, wearing a pair of yoga pants and her cherry print jumper over the sleep shirt. He turned back to Lestrade. "…the feather is the calling card of a Kansas City criminal."

"I was guessing he was American. Where's Kansas City?"

"In the middle." Molly, Sherlock and John answered at the same time. When Molly flinched John stepped closer and guided her to a chair. "Where are your plasters and ointments kept?"

"On top of the refrigerator." When John found what he needed, along with some ice and a plastic bag, he handed the bag to the tired girl and began working with her.

Sherlock, watching the progress of her doctoring, looked strangely curious. "Why does nobody seem to know where Kansas City is?"

"Perhaps for the same reason nobody outside of southeast Devon has ever heard of the town of Beer." Lestrade said.

Sherlock's eyebrow rose. "Except that the Kansas City metropolitan area has over a million people, whereas Beer only has about 1500 residents. Yes, I have heard of it." Sherlock began to pace. "A man was killed by a professional killer in a strip club, in Kansas City, called 'Midnight Call'. A falcon's feather was found on the body. While I could find nothing on the killing itself… it was pretty much ignored by the local media… I did find that there is a notorious criminal around Kansas City whom nobody has ever really confirmed the identity of."

John added, nodding as he finished with Molly. "A bit like Keyser Soze."

"Ohhh…" Both Molly and Lestrade nodded with understanding.

"You know what that means?" Sherlock asked, rather incredibly. The two nodded. "Interesting. I thought John made that up."

"It's the name of the bad guy in the movie 'The Usual Suspects'. It's about…"

Sherlock threw Lestrade a horrified look. "Why would you think I would care? I think, in this case…"

"I think you better care," Molly said quietly. The men turned to look at her. "If this guy is like Keyser Soze, he is able to do the things that he does because of his anonymity. He will be ruthless and he will hide behind layers of people, even without them knowing who he is or that they are being used." The men looked at her in awe.

"How do you know that?" Lestrade asked, his eyes showing pride in what she said.

"I don't watch crap telly like some people do."

"When did that movie come out?" Sherlock asked, his mind whirling at her magnificent deduction. He was greatly relieved she'd put on more clothes.

"Hmmm…" John pulled out his phone and looked it up. "…1995."

"So when he killed the guy in Kansas City, he wasn't copying the movie. You need time, resources and contacts to build up the sort of organization we are talking about. Perhaps this 'Falcon' was the inspiration?" Lestrade mused.

Sherlock rolled his eyes then huffed, turning to where the impressively large guy had fallen. "It's a movie. It doesn't matter. The idea we got from the movie is what matters."

John sighed but looked ready to chuck his phone at his best friend's head. "You're the one who asked."

"Yes and I'm sorry I did. I've got Mycroft looking into Falcon. Lestrade, where is the child?"

"She's with Child Services at the moment."

"Get her in police custody. There's a good chance this child is a target for Falcon. He's going to want to do a thorough house cleaning and she could be in grave danger." Lestrade nodded and hit speed dial on his phone. "Now…" Sherlock turned to Molly who was watching the man do his thing. It was always her favorite part, watching the man work. "…what are we going to do with you?"

"Me?! I'll be fine."

"Oh Molly…" Sherlock shook his head, his tone suggesting parental impatience. "…clearly that isn't the case. You need to go somewhere safe."

"And just where do you suggest?"

Sherlock shifted from foot to foot, wringing his hands behind his back. "You'll come to Baker Street."

**Once again, thank you SO MUCH for reading, reviewing, favoriting and following! **


	8. Chapter 7

**Because ya'll are such good readers… and the sun is shining after a rather active storm today… You get a bonus EARLY chapter! I probably won't post until Monday or Tuesday of next week though!**

**DISCLAIMER: The characters in this story that you can find in your Sherlock Box Set are the property of Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I am not making any money, nor are they hocking my products (which I have none). I don't get anything from this except the pure enjoyment of writing! **

**This story is un-betaed. **

Chapter 7

_He turned to Molly who was watching the man do his thing. It was always her favorite part, watching the man work. "…what are we going to do with you?"_

"_Me?! I'll be fine."_

"_Oh Molly…" Sherlock shook his head, his tone suggesting parental impatience. "…clearly that isn't the case. You need to go somewhere safe."_

"_And just where do you suggest?"_

_Sherlock shifted from foot to foot, wringing his hands behind his back. "You'll come to Baker Street."_

Molly looked at Sherlock as if he were insane. Or high on something. "Are you insane? Or high on something?"

"Can both be true?" John interjected.

"I am NOT moving in with you."

Now Sherlock was genuinely confused. "Why not?"

"We did that once. It was rubbish." Lestrade's eyebrow rose and he opened it to say something but she pointed to him. "Don't even think about asking. All you need to know is that Sherlock stayed with me for three months after he jumped." She looked back at the man in question but her next statement was meant for everybody. "I would rather jump off Bart's myself then move back in with…" Molly pointed at Sherlock. "…him." With that she turned on her heel and marched to her bedroom, slamming the door shut.

"What the hell happened between you two?" John asked. It was even worse than he had once thought. Sherlock was too busy staring in the direction she stalked off to pay any attention to his best friend. Then it hit John and his eyes widened. "You did NOT! NO! You and Molly?!"

"What?" Lestrade asked. For being such a good DI, Lestrade could be rather dense at times.

"Sherlock and Molly had SEX!"

"No freakin' WAY!" The DI laughed incredulously. He wasn't quite sure he believed it but he wouldn't hurt Molly's feelings by saying anything to the contrary.

"Now I completely understand!" John shook his head. Perhaps he had some inkling of their relationship but it took her vehement refusal to prove that they had been more than just roommates. "Your sudden feelings for her and Molly's radical personality shift. But, you bastard, you slept with her then left her. Don't you watch enough crap telly to know you just don't do that? Don't start something unless you can…"

Sherlock sent John an irritated look. "It's not like I MEANT for it to happen. It just… happened."

"And how many times did it 'just happen'?" Sherlock's silence was enough to answer the question.

"You WANKER!" Lestrade exploded, wheeling back his arm to sock him one but John was right there, pushing him back. For a smaller man John had a surprisingly amount of upper body strength.

"Boys, enough." John pushed Lestrade to the side and asked, "Are your men done with the scene?" The older man, who was breathing through his mouth to calm himself, nodded. "Fine. Get them out of the flat then come back here. I have an idea." Lestrade threw Sherlock a glare then turned on his heel and left.

John looked at Sherlock who was watching Lestrade stalk away in a huff. "Fascinating. It's hopeless you know."

"What is hopeless?"

"Molly wouldn't go on a date with him. She doesn't like him that way."

"And who exactly does she like 'that way'?"

"Well… me." The statement sounded quite matter-of-fact. If it had been another man John would have written him off as a pompous dick but it was Sherlock. Well, Sherlock WAS a dick but he was Sherlock. He was simply stating a fact, a fact that even John knew was correct.

"Is there somebody you like 'that way'?"

Sherlock looked relieved to see Lestrade come back. Even if the older man was still miffed, Sherlock didn't have to answer John's question. "They are done. What is your idea Watson?"

"Molly won't stay with us but it is clear she needs protection. Can you have a copper stay with Molly instead?"

"I'll stay," Lestrade said, much too quickly for Sherlock's preference.

"NO." The firmness of Sherlock's assertion made his position quite clear. As it would happen the other two men in the room didn't care what Sherlock's position was. Molly's safety was more important.

"That is not your decision to make Sherlock," A new voice entered the conversation. The men turned to find Molly leaning against the wall, anger clearly written all over her face. It was obvious she had heard more than just the last part of that conversation. "And you have no idea whether I would go on a date with Lestrade or not. He's never asked." Molly paused her speech but stepped closer to Sherlock. Lestrade opened his mouth to ask what she was talking about but John held up a hand to stop him. "If any situation were hopeless it is between you and me. Utterly and completely hopeless." Molly looked at Lestrade. "I would be most grateful if you would stay. But…" She paused. "…I can't be in this flat right now, not after what happened to Michelle, then me, in less than 24 hours. Could I…" Molly's demeanor turned shy when she looked in Lestrade's eyes. "…could I perhaps stay with you?"

"YES!" Lestrade's relieved answer was embarrassingly enthusiastic and quick on the draw. Molly simply smiled gently.

Of course this didn't sit well with the consulting detective. "Lestrade, I thought you were back with your wife."

"That's what you get for thinking Sherlock," The older detective's demeanor oozed smug satisfaction. "The bitch moved in with the wanker. I'm just glad I don't have kids." Lestrade looked at Molly. "Are you sure?"

She nodded. "Yes. I need to get out of here, someplace different. I know…" She smiled with a hint of embarrassment as she lowered her eyes to her hands. "…I know you won't let anything happen to me."

Sherlock watched with surprise on his face. He felt like he was watching a train wreck, from moments before until moments after. He knew it would be gruesome but he couldn't seem to take his eyes away from it. It was hypnotic in its utter absurdity. "But…"

Molly looked at Sherlock. "I'm doing what you said. You said I needed to go somewhere safe. I would think that the house of a DI is even safer than the flat of a highly-functional sociopath who shoots bullets into his wall and murders violin concertos when he's bored. Heaven knows what you would do to me should you get bored." She turned back to the DI. "I have to work today…"

Sherlock needed to somehow assert his importance into a situation that he'd somehow lost control of. He coughed and said, "I'll call Mike. You shouldn't have to work today."

Molly looked ready to shoot him in the head with his own pistol. "Once again, Sherlock, that is not your decision to make. Stop making decisions for me and go solve the case. I'm going to work." She looked back at the DI. "Let me pack a few things and get ready for work."

Lestrade, with a grin that would rival a Cheshire who was just given a bowl of fresh cream laced with catnip, shook his head. "Why don't you get your belongings together and you can get ready at my place? I'll make breakfast and you don't have to rush around."

Molly smiled at him brightly. "That sounds brilliant. Thank you…" She threw him a playful smirk, keeping one eye on Sherlock to gauge his reaction. "…Greg." Her grin spread when she caught Sherlock's strangled gasp. "Now…" She smiled gently at John. "…I think we are finished for tonight. I am sorry for the continued inconvenience I have caused and promise not to call you again with any emergencies."

"Please, Molly, please call us if something happens. And Greg, you need to find Eric Livingston. Sherlock thinks he's in danger."

"If you can believe it, Sherlock, I actually thought of that. Based on the travel itinerary he left in the house, I've got men en route to his location now."

John nodded because Sherlock was speechless. In fact he looked like he had swallowed a bitter lemon. "Well…" Without taking his eyes, or smile, from the petite pathologist, John grabbed Sherlock's coat collar and turned toward the door. "…we'll leave you to it. I'm sure Sherlock will be in touch should anything come up. Greg, let us know the progress of your living arrangements." John nearly howled with laughter at Sherlock's deep breath and narrowed look. He was taking great sadistic humor in Sherlock's discomfort. "Come along detective boy. You have a mystery to solve."

**Thanks again for reading. And remember: this IS a Sherlolly story. I know it seems bad between Sherlock and Molly but don't lose hope! Stick around for more! **


	9. Chapter 8

**DISCLAIMER: The characters in this story that you can find in your Sherlock Box Set are the property of Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I am not making any money, nor are they hocking my products (which I have none). I don't get anything from this except the pure enjoyment of writing! **

**This story is un-betaed. **

Chapter 8

"_Please, Molly, please call us if something happens." John shot a look at Sherlock who looked like he had swallowed a bitter lemon. "Well…" Without taking his eyes, or smile, from the petite pathologist, grabbed Sherlock's coat collar and turned toward the door. "…we'll leave you to it. I'm sure Sherlock will be in touch should anything come up. Lestrade, let us know the progress of your living arrangements." John nearly howled with laughter at Sherlock's deep breath and narrowed look. He was taking great sadistic humor in Sherlock's discomfort. "Come along detective boy. You have a mystery to solve."_

...

"Greg, make yourself at home. I will be a few minutes."

"Take your time." He looked down as he felt something rub against his ankles. "Oh! Is this your cat?"

"That's Toby. He's very well behaved."

"Then bring him along. I don't know how long you'll be at my house and you shouldn't have to board him."

Molly looked surprised but grateful. "Are you sure?"

"Of course."

"Well…" Molly went to the kitchen and found his cat carrier in a cupboard. "Would you do me a favor and put him in his carrier? I'll round up the dishes and food when I'm done packing."

"I can do that."

"Ok…" She pointed to the items in the same cupboard as the carrier was. "His travel items are in there."

"Great. Go. Get ready. We'll be alright." With a smile Molly turned and went to her bedroom. But her mind wasn't on her present living arrangement. It was on Sherlock. And herself. And what they did all those months ago. And Greg. She knew she seemed to be stringing him along, which certainly was not something she normally did. But she was reveling in the fact that a man, a handsome man, clearly liked her and wasn't afraid to show her. It was reassuring and something she found she needed at that moment. Molly got such mixed signals from Sherlock, it left her confused and a bit heartbroken.

Before she knew it she was packed and they were on their way to Lestrade's house. "Um, Molly…" he began, reluctant to say anything but was overwhelmingly curious just the same. "…you've… you've changed since Sherlock's fall." She waited for him to continue but when he didn't she sighed.

"Yes I guess I have."

"This is a side of you I never expected to see."

"Actually I never thought I had it in me."

"What… I mean, after you, um…" He seemed reluctant to say the word. "…and Sherlock… um…"

"Did the deed?"

Stopping at a traffic light Lestrade squirmed in his seat. "Yes. Didn't you realize that he isn't capable of a meaningful relationship with a woman?"

"So… is that what everybody thinks this is? That I was hoping it was more than what it really was? That I saw something that wasn't really there?"

"Well… yes."

"Wow. What little you boys know about me." Molly shook her head and let out a 'pffft!' of indignation. "Do you really want to know what happened?" When he didn't answer she continued. "At first it was casual. And I was alright with that because I'm not stupid. I know enough about Sherlock to realize I wasn't going to get any more than that. I know he's not capable of healthy, meaningful relationships. We were both stressed and needed a release and, since I wouldn't let him have his gun and violin in the flat, we both needed it. It went a long way to breaking the ice between us but…"

"But…?"

"But it became something more than casual. He began confiding in me, telling me things about himself, and his life, that I don't know if he's told anybody else. I don't know if he simply felt comfortable enough with me to tell me, if he really wanted me to know or if I had become important enough for him to confide in me. And I shared with him things I don't normally tell others. During that month we became… intimate… in every way possible. Then, all of the sudden, he left and acted as if nothing happened. He even went so far as to say that everything he told me was a lie."

"He's lying Molly."

"Of course he's lying but why say it in the first place? And to my face? Perhaps I am expecting a better filtration system between his brain and his mouth but…" Lestrade chuckled but let her continue. Molly gave him a sad little smile. "…it's probably a pipe dream to think there was ANY filtration system between his brain and his mouth."

"I don't confess to know a whole lot about Sherlock other than he's a brilliant mind with no concept of tact. But Molly, he's changed too. Jumping off a building and fooling the very few people he holds with any sort of respect into thinking he was dead really has changed him. And if you hadn't have helped him you would have been in that category as well. But you need to talk to him. If you are able to…"

"No Greg. Talking doesn't do it. Why do you think I've changed? He needs to see, for himself, he can't treat people like he did and expect them to still be there for him. And I won't stand for it. Do you really think this is easy for me? This attitude, this confidence, isn't me Greg. Whenever I see Sherlock, and put on this act, I cry afterwards. I turn a blind eye to what he is like around me because I can't concentrate on that. Right now it's survival, Greg, and I chose to no longer be a victim of Sherlock."

"But for how long can you keep this up?"

And she didn't have an answer for him.

SHERLOLLY***SHERLOLLY***SHERLOLLY

"So what happened?"

"Angie failed. She knocked him out."

This surprised Falcon; after all one of the reasons Angie was hired was because of his linebacker size. Molly Hooper getting the best of the giant was the last thing Falcon ever thought would have happened. It seemed pointless to ask how it happened; it was only important that it DID happen. Falcon didn't get upset about this latest development and he never got outwardly angry, at least whenever his closest confidante, and business partner, was around. If people really understood what was going on between these two men, they could say they were closer than brothers. And they were. They were like yin to yang. So Camel knew what Falcon was thinking.

"This troubles me Camel."

"What do we do about Angie?"

Falcon pondered for a minute. "Nothing. While this is quite distressing, it is also the reason I hire people anonymously. Angie, just like all of our contracted associates, has no idea who we are or how to contact us. There is nothing to tie us back to him. Angie is a very good operative and I can't afford to lose him."

"But you had Sally killed after the Georgie hit."

"Sally was a fucking moron. He was getting sloppy. Don't forget Davenport, Camel, and the shit storm we were barely able to cover up. No, the imbecile had it coming. But we can't afford to lose Angie. He's one of the best American contractors working in Europe at the moment."

"He was taken to the hospital, handcuffed to the gurney. The police will certainly question him."

"Angie was trained by Special Forces during the Afghanistan fiasco. The man's been waterboarded. I don't think we have anything to worry about. Besides, nothing can be traced back to us because he was never given anything to start with. I'll see if I can pull some strings to get him released earlier. I have contacts who owe me favors but Angie will just be out of commission for awhile."

"So… what do you want to do about Miss Hooper Falcon?"

"Nothing right now. I am leaving in an hour to take care of Livingston…"

"Where is he?"

"Conservation conference in Zurich. But I'll be back in London. Lay low and keep the surveillance on Holmes, Watson and Hooper. Do not do anything; only watch. I've got them exactly where I want them. Holmes cannot… will not… beat us." Falcon looked at Camel with pride. "We are so close to finishing. When we're done in London we'll have everything in place and all we have to do is sit back and watch our little enterprise grow into something beautiful and monstrous." Camel simply nodded then watched as Falcon left the car and blended in with the crowd around him.

SHERLOLLY***SHERLOLLY***SHERLOLLY

Mrs. Hudson was a genteel woman in her mid-seventies. She had a husband once, Mr. Hudson, a man whom, when they were first married, was just as genteel and quite pleasant in his own way. But as the years went on, and after the children were grown, another side of Mr. Roger Hudson emerged, one that, for the first time in her life, left Mrs. Hudson feeling genuinely frightened for her life.

She couldn't quite remember the time or the place or the event which precipitated Roger Hudson's seeming personality change but when the man announced to his wife his intention of moving to Florida with his, surprise, much younger mistress (the only surprise was the age of the mistress), the prim and proper woman had to stop herself from happily dancing naked across Waterloo Bridge. In morning rush hour.

And, later, when he got himself into a pickle with the Florida law, Mrs. Hudson hired a certain young consulting detective to prove that he was as guilty as sin. Of which he was, of course. Now that her ex-husband (she had such a happy smile whenever she said that) was rotting on death row, to show her never ending gratefulness to the young man for freeing her she gave him a great rate for a two-bedroom Central London flat in the building she owned.

At times the arrangement was a great idea. At others, like when Sherlock shot up the wall because he was bored, it didn't seem like quite a great idea. Or when she found body parts in the refrigerator? She no longer tried to tell him to stop. The boy didn't listen to her anyway but… she saw him as an extremely intelligent boy who just didn't understand that people weren't like him. He wasn't evil and he had a good heart (most of the time) but he was… Sherlock. There was no changing him.

Mrs. Hudson had been appraised by John what was happening with Molly, a woman of whom Mrs. Hudson held in great esteem. After all, she knew Molly helped him after The Incident; once Sherlock's status had been made public (Mrs. Hudson heard about it on the telly. She still didn't know if she could forgive Sherlock for breaking the news to her in that way.), Molly had confided in her about the time Sherlock stayed in her flat. Molly made the older woman promise not to tell anybody about her role but Molly just couldn't keep it to herself any longer. She was working through her feelings for the consulting detective and needed somebody who knew him to give her advice. Molly certainly couldn't talk to John about it.

And Mrs. Hudson was quite grateful for the trust that Molly put in her. She was also grateful to know that Sherlock COULD actually have sex. She was getting so worried about her young tenant…

It was after six a.m. the morning after Molly's friend had been found dead (she didn't know yet about Molly's run in with Mr. Impressively Large Man), and for some odd reason Mrs. Hudson was awake. She didn't know why but she was. As she made some tea for herself she heard the front door open followed by muffled voices. Going to the door she opened it a crack and put her ear to the open space…

"She told you, Sherlock, she does not want to come to Baker Street. I don't blame her; shagging her like that then treating her like nothing happened. I am surprised that…"

"What? You're surprised about what? That I would treat her like that? Don't be so naïve. Why does everybody think I'm abandoning her?"

"So you care for her?"

"I didn't say that…"

"Bull shit!"

"Fine, believe what you want."

"If you had seen you these past few days… hell, this past YEAR…"

"I don't know what you are talking about."

"Sherlock…" John paused and Mrs. Hudson leaned in closer, hoping to hear better. "…you have been avoiding her but, when you are together, you look ready to pounce on her."

"I don't care for her!"

His vehemence wasn't convincing either John or Mrs. Hudson, who shook her head. 'That poor boy is going to make himself miserable if he doesn't do something about this…'

"Fine. You say you don't care about her. But damn it you can't have it both ways so stop acting like you can!"

Sherlock sighed and leaned against the wall. Mrs. Hudson could hear the tired dejection in the man's voice, something she never thought she'd ever hear from Sherlock. "Just because we had sex doesn't mean I'm Molly's lapdog. I have got to keep her at a distance. I can't work any other way. I can't LIVE any other way. Why can't people understand that?"

"But you don't want to keep her at a distance. And yes, that wasn't a question. That was an observation."

"I know what we'll do. Let's all go on Oprah and have it out there. It would seem that American talk shows are the only way to truly solve relationship problems. If Oprah decides that I can't be without Molly, and that she is my soul mate, I have to abide by her determination. Oprah knows everything, right?" Mrs. Hudson could almost hear Sherlock's eyes rolling.

"Oprah's not on the telly anymore."

"Bloody hell," Sherlock's voice dripped with sarcasm. "There's no hope for us now."

"All I'm saying is you can't have sex then act as if nothing happened. Especially with a woman like Molly. Molly feels everything quite deeply and she loved you for so long. I am very sure that sex with you wasn't casual for her. How did it happen anyway?"

"You're the doctor, you should know the mechanics."

"I'm actually surprised you do."

"The porn on your laptop was quite informative." Mrs. Hudson couldn't hear anything else as the boys ran up the stairs and slammed the door shut. With a sigh she went back into her flat and shook her head. She could read the mood Sherlock was in and was thankful she was no longer sleepy. She wasn't about to get any more sleep that morning.

**A/N: Again, many, MANY thanks for everybody who is reading, commenting, favoriting or just hanging around. Your support and your comments are wonderful. **


	10. Chapter 9

**It's rainy and blech today so here's a chapter for you. Next one won't be until the weekend. **

**DISCLAIMER: The characters in this story that you can find in your Sherlock Box Set are the property of Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I am not making any money, nor are they hocking my products (which I have none). I don't get anything from this except the pure enjoyment of writing!**

**This story is un-betaed. **

Chapter 9

"_All I'm saying is you can't have sex then act as if nothing happened. Especially with a woman like Molly. Molly feels everything quite deeply and she loved you for so long. I am very sure that sex with you wasn't casual for her. How did it happen anyway?"_

"_You're the doctor, you should know the mechanics."_

"_I'm actually surprised you do."_

"_The porn on your laptop was quite informative." Mrs. Hudson couldn't hear anything else as the boys ran up the stairs and slammed the door shut. With a sigh she went back into her flat and shook her head. She could read the mood Sherlock was in and was thankful she was no longer sleepy. She wasn't about to get any more sleep that morning. _

…..

"I can't thank you enough for this Greg," Molly gushed, grateful and relieved that she didn't have to spend any more time in her flat. "And again, thank you for letting me bring Toby."

Greg smiled. He was realizing he would do just about anything for Molly. "I'm happy to do it."

"You are a good friend Greg." This made the lonely DI deflate a bit. That certainly wasn't what he wanted…

"Here is where you will sleep…" He showed her to a room down the hall from his own. He didn't want to freak the girl out by giving her the room across from his. That certainly wasn't the way to woo the woman. "…and there's a loo en suite so you have plenty of privacy." Greg set the overnight bag on the bed and stepped back to the doorway. "How about I make us some breakfast?"

She nodded and smiled then looked at her watch. "I have to be at the morgue in two hours."

"I can drive you there if you like."

"You don't have to…"

"I want to. We need to keep you safe and the easiest way to do that is to drive you where you need to go. Please… let me do my job. If something should happen to you…" Greg sighed. "…Sherlock would have my head."

Molly shrugged nonchalantly. "I doubt he would care."

"Oh I don't know about that…" Greg turned to leave but then stopped. He didn't turn around as he said, "…we will get whoever killed your friend."

"I never had any doubt about that." Molly sighed resignedly. "I have Sherlock on my side; what could go wrong?"

SHERLOLLY***SHERLOLLY***SHERLOLLY

Later that day, when John got back to the flat after running a few errands, he found Sherlock pointing something at the wall.

POP!

"SHERLOCK! STOP IT!" John screamed over the popping of the handgun in the consulting detective's hands. He rushed to his friend's side. "Why are you shooting up the wall? You can't be bored!"

"I'm not bored!" POP! POP! POP! "Do you happen to notice what is attached to my gun?" He whipped the gun in front of John.

"A silencer. That's nice. What's the point?"

Sherlock looked at John as if John were a space alien who'd just informed Sherlock the reason for his visit to earth was to mate with him. "What's the point? I think you've been hanging out at the Tesco far too long. Why haven't you asked Ms. Morstan out already?" John's mouth opened with indignation but he slapped it shut. "I'm testing gun patterns…"

"Bull shit. It's a good try but you're a lot more transparent than you think. No, you're pissed off about Molly staying with Greg." Sherlock turned his back on John with a huff. "Makes you wonder what they will be doing to get to know each other better, doesn't it? I wonder if her bedroom is across the hall from his…" Sherlock sent John a death glare then turned back to the wall. John's head cocked to the side. "…and she has been through a very traumatic day. She will probably have nightmares. Do you think that when she has them he'll go to her room and comfort her? And just what kind of comfort do you think he'll provide?"

Sherlock's hand gripped and un-gripped the gun. "We need ballistics on the gun that killed Georgie Callivario thirteen years ago." Sherlock's voice had lowered to a menacing tone. Even John knew it was time to quit the goading. "See if it matches the gun found on the guy in Molly's flat."

"Do you think it will match?"

"No but it must be eliminated."

"What makes you so sure Molly's intruder isn't Falcon?"

"John must I really walk you through everything? You're concentrating more what you think is there with Molly than the case. Why do you think I avoid this sort of thing?" Sherlock stepped closer to the wall to examine the holes. "The one who orders the hit never does the dirty work. Why do you think they have henchmen? Or contract killers? They can't afford to be directly implicated in anything. But we need to search ballistics imaging from around the world. There is a chance that if we can find where this gun has been used, we could, possibly, track down who the gun belongs to."

"But according to what you just said it won't be Falcon." John said, stepping closer to the wall. "How do gun patterns and striations help this case? Michelle Livingston was strangled."

"I would have hoped, by now, that you had realized I'm not concentrating on a lowly housewife." John looked at Sherlock in horror. Sherlock simply rolled his eyes in response. "I think you know what I mean. Michelle Livingston is a small fish in a huge fishbowl of criminal behavior." John's eyebrow rose at the analogy but he didn't say anything. "When we discover who this Falcon is, we discover who murdered her, obviously. And we discover why she was murdered. John…" Sherlock took a moment for John to acknowledge the seriousness in his countenance. "…I want him. I want to know who Falcon is and how he has eluded everybody for so long. He's not Moriarty..."

"He is, in some ways. He's ruthless and willing to do whatever he wants to serve his purpose. Only he's not crazy jealous of you."

Sherlock's head cocked. "You are right. Falcon seems very detached. He doesn't want glory for what he does because he understands that anonymity is his best friend. Moriarty had a raging ego problem. And, in some ways, that makes Falcon even more dangerous and that much more elusive." Sherlock looked back at the wall. "John, if your Keyser Soze analogy is correct, he will need to stay mythical." Sherlock turned to John, still holding the gun. "And myths don't walk up and present themselves for your perusal."

"In the movie Keyser Soze never contacted anybody himself. He used his lawyer to do his dirty work." John looked back at his roommate, friend and fellow crime fighter. "I think we need to determine just how many crimes that gun was used in. Then find the shooter and glean more information about who hired him and how it was done."

"Lovely thought John but exactly how will you get them to talk to us? I suspect he wouldn't be too eager to have tea and 'shoot the breeze', as Americans would say. Besides, don't you think the police tried to locate the bullet thirteen years ago?" Sherlock's question wasn't one of provocation. He truly wanted John's opinion.

"Perhaps but, then, they could have written it off as a bad guy bumping off another bad guy, thereby ridding the world of the scum, and left it alone."

Sherlock nodded. "That seems possible. It is the untamed Midwest, home of Wyatt Earp and Jesse James."

"You aren't one to subscribe to stereotypes Sherlock. You hate them."

"Perhaps." Sherlock paused and dropped the gun on the sofa on his other side. The sofa's arm exploded with a POP!

"HOLY…!" John's expletive was muffled as he hit the floor. They heard a scream and a thump and the men turned to see a woman crouching in the doorway, her hands covering her head, a fresh bullet hole at the top of the doorway. John was the first to respond, jumping up and running to the frightened woman. "Are you alright?"

"Yes." The woman shakily responded. She stood up and regarded the two men, wringing her hands to calm her nerves. "Is this how you treat all your prospective clients?"

"As a matter of fact that was …" Sherlock said, turning his back to the woman, dramatically flaring his dressing gown at what John assumed to be a pompous, bratty attempt at intimidation. The woman clearly wasn't intimidated. She was rapidly calming and was now evaluating her new surroundings. "A test."

"And how did I do?"

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively at her and John, rolling his eyes, turned to the woman. "Please ignore him. Sherlock is working through a rather difficult puzzle at present."

"Not difficult John just out of my reach. So many variables I cannot manipulate…"

"Manipulate?" The woman asked. She watched the detective with brilliant blue eyes that contrasted nicely with her ginger hair. Sherlock studied her for a moment. The woman was perhaps a few pounds overweight but on the tall side, around 5'10". She wore a very stylish and slimming skirt suit and a royal blue silk blouse unbuttoned dangerously low, hugging her generous bosom. Given the cut of the suit, the expense of her simple jewelry and the haute couture look of her shoes, this woman was wealthy with a very impressive eye for understated and definitely conservative fashion. Her wedding ring was very clean but not new so she was happily married. And her breasts were real. That gave Sherlock a moment of confused ire. Since when did he pay attention to womanly parts? Since he'd spent some quality time with Molly's? "Detectives aren't supposed to manipulate the variables of a case."

"Oh don't mind him…" John said. "Sherlock doesn't have access to all the information he needs and it is killing him."

"No it's not." The subject in question snapped at the man.

"Anyway…" John said and looked back at the woman. "I am Dr. John Watson and he is…"

"Sherlock Holmes. Yes, I know."

John's eyebrow, and curiosity, rose but he didn't say anything. "What can we help you with Miss…?"

"Missus Abigail Turner." Abigail pulled an envelope from her bag but kept it to her side. "I received a letter in the post today…"

"Really? Congratulations. You must be somebody special…" Sherlock snapped.

Abigail ignored the swipe. "I believe I am being watched as a target."

"A target? A target for what?"

"I have no idea. I have a high profile job but nothing that would warrant something like this." She leaned against the wall but John took her arm and gently helped her to a chair in the middle of the room.

"Let me fix you some tea Mrs. Turner." John said, going to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

"What is your profession?" Sherlock asked as he took the seat beside the woman.

"I'm a fashion designer." She pulled out her card and showed it to him. Even Sherlock had heard of the brand.

"You're the owner of Winthrop and Wallace?"

Abigail nodded. "One of them. I'm Winthrop. My business partner is Wallace."

"Is that your maiden name?"

"No. It's my married name. I use my maiden name in public."

And as much as he didn't want to admit it, Sherlock was impressed with this woman. It was clear she was smart, which lent to her credibility and his decision to actually listen to her. However, she still didn't seem like the type of person to receive such a letter, which only made this case that much more intriguing. Sherlock folded his hands together under his chin and regarded the woman. "Are you sure the letter is legitimate?"

Abigail shrugged. "Whether it is or it isn't, it's quite worrisome. Whoever sent that to me doesn't sound as if they have all their faculties with them if you catch my meaning."

Sherlock's ears perked and he locked eyes on the letter sitting in the woman's lap. "How did you hear about us Mrs. Turner?"

"My husband is a work colleague of Molly Hooper's. And I am a personal friend of hers as well." She looked up and smiled charmingly at John who smiled dopily at her. Sherlock simply eyed the woman who suddenly gasped. Abigail looked at Sherlock. "Wait… does this have to do with Molly?"

Sherlock was surprised to hear that question. "What makes you say that?"

Abigail eyed the man Molly called 'the master of deduction'. She had been very impressed; she'd never met somebody as smart and alert as he was. And she'd met a lot of people in her journeys. "The way you reacted to my mentioning of Molly. You perked up there."

John set down the tea service on the table in front of the others and waved his hand dismissively. "That's only because he's in love with her. He perks up like a love-sick puppy at the mention of her name."

"JOHN!" Sherlock roared and the woman snorted rather unladylike.

"I'm sure Molly would be thrilled to hear that." Neither man could ascertain whether that statement was sarcastic or not. Abigail finally handed the envelope to Sherlock. "Read it for yourself and determine whether it's legitimate or not."

Sherlock eyed her with impatience before he stood up and took the letter to the window for better light. He took a few moments to study the envelope. "There's nothing particularly unusual or different about this envelope." He held it up to the light, turning it this way and that. He then extracted the folded letter but kept his eyes on the envelope. "It looks to be an ordinary security envelope, one that could be purchased at any discount shop." He then opened the letter and something fell out, fluttering to the ground. John gasped and Sherlock said, "Hmmm…" Leaning over he picked it up and held it in the light. "I'll take the case." Sherlock muttered, studying the falcon feather in the light.

**A/N: Thank you again for reading! I appreciate it!**


	11. Chapter 10

**DISCLAIMER: The characters in this story that you can find in your Sherlock Box Set are the property of Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I am not making any money, nor are they hocking my products (which I have none). I don't get anything from this except the pure enjoyment of writing!**

**This story is un-betaed. **

Chapter 10

_Sherlock ignored the snort that came from John's general direction. He looked down at the envelope in her hand. "Let me see the letter." She gave it to him and he took it to the window for better light. When he pulled it out something fell out and fluttered to the ground. John gasped and Sherlock said, "Hmmm…" It was clear he was interested. Leaning over he picked it up and held it in the light. "I'll take the case." Sherlock muttered, studying the falcon feather in the light._

…..

Mrs. Turner's eyebrow rose. "Aren't you even going to read the letter?"

"The element of importance to this letter, and your involvement, is the feather." John could see that Sherlock was intentionally refusing to read the letter. He couldn't believe how childish his friend was being.

"Well, if you aren't going to read the letter I will." John walked up to Sherlock but was unsuccessful in swiping it from him.

While Abigail didn't have children she understood how they worked. And she completely agreed with Molly's assessment of Sherlock being a 5-year-old in a 30-year-old body. "I wouldn't be so sure Mr. Holmes," She placed her cup back on the saucer, set the cup and saucer on the table, and stood up to join the men at the window. "It seems rather interesting that I would come to you with a letter, with a feather enclosed in it, and you don't find the situation incredible or outstanding. This means you have a current situation involving either errant letters to random individuals or feathers." She paused then cocked her head to the side. "Given that you won't even read the letter, I will go with feathers."

Sherlock snorted then looked at her. "Who is the detective here?"

"At the moment? Me. Since you won't actually read the letter I don't know how much faith I put in you at the present."

This made Sherlock's nose flare and, with a dramatic flourish, opened the folded letter. It read:

**The end is near 4-2-1_5**

**And justice will tear the prey. 7-1-1**

**I demand you listen, 7z -6-2**

**And consciously process what I say. 6-8-1**

**Live beyond simply the here and now, 5z-4-3**

**Meditate on what you know and what I've provided. 1z-3-1**

**Vice corrupts absolutely as forgives covers all; 8z-4-2**

**Lies are truths divided and truths are lies undivided. 5-3-5**

**Not today. Not tomorrow. Neither now nor never later. 1-5-1**

**Of what governs the multitude 3z-3-1**

**Will soon see a stark reality. 3-4-2**

**Twin motives, twin deceptions, twin contradictions. 6z-6-3**

**What was one is now duality. 9-5-2**

**Now before you run to your agile brain 4a-1-2**

**To tell you what you think you know, do not. 9z-5-2**

**Stop for a moment; all isn't and all is not. 8-7-2**

**What seems what if really is if not. 4z-3-1**

**Not today. Not tomorrow. Never now but maybe later? 1a-9-11**

**This little poem, full of misconstrued ideas and nonsensical jumbles, 2a-6-1_4**

**Is thankfully and mercifully nearly concluded. 3a-5-2**

**I am sure by now you realize what is happening, 2z-3-1**

**and what, or who, have colluded. 2-6-2**

"It's juvenile and obscure…" He handed the letter to John like a huffy child who'd been given peas for dinner when he really wanted pizza. It was clear that Sherlock really didn't read it. It was also clear that he didn't see it worthy to be considered.

"But it's uniform in its composure…" John added after he studied it. "Every four lines comprise one association. Every other line has the same quantity of words. But these two lines…" He pointed to the two lines in the poem that were by themselves and the other adults leaned in to see what he was saying. "…are separate. Why?"

Abigail looked at the twin crime fighters as if they were insane. "You can't seriously be dissecting the letter for composition, can you? Never mind the quantity of words and the line structure. What do the numbers at the end mean?"

"It's a cipher. Anybody would know that." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Why must all the bad guys use ciphers? It's starting to get very old. Can't they be creative anymore?" And John was instantly reminded of an ancient teapot, yellow spray paint (that damned ASBO that took forever to get off his record), a jade hairpin and the Great Book Hunt. John was in full agreement with Sherlock. When he blogs about this case he'll need to mention to the bad guys that if they use ciphers they will just make Sherlock mad. And Sherlock will win that much quicker. Just not a good thing for bad guys.

Abigail was ignoring Sherlock's questions. "And…? What are you going to do about it?"

"Do I look like a cryptologist?"

"You're the supposed genius, Mr. Holmes. Exactly how can I kill you to make it look like an accident?" Abigail balled her fists and restrained herself from punching him in the nose.

"Touchy."

"Enough children," John finally interjected. "Mrs. Turner, composition seems to be very important to the author. Perhaps the numbers have something to do with the structure of the poem."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course it does John. I don't have time to sit down and doodle my way through this letter."

"Fine," Abigail ground her teeth. "Just answer me one question…"

"Better make it a good one. You only get the one."

"Just how the hell do you get to be a world famous detective with that attitude? I thought you'd be dead by now."

"Ah, see, I could tell you but then I'd have to kill you." He paused and grinned then cocked his head. "Gingers are feisty when they're angry."

John knew he desperately needed to get the conversation back on track. "Sherlock, I think this poem means there's a mole who is trying to pass information to us."

"Once you stop stating the obvious we'll be able to get down to business," Sherlock snapped.

Abigail agreed with John. "Yes Dr. Watson. But this letter was intended for you Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock, who was on a roll with the snark, looked incredulous. "You too Mrs. Turner? Is this National State the Obvious Day and nobody told me? If it is, why couldn't I have gone to Wales, where they wouldn't recognize the obvious if it slapped them on the face and danced the flamingo with flaming batons? This mole, as you are calling them, purposefully sent you the letter to confuse me. It's obvious they've never met me before; it won't stump me for long."

"Now if it were a letter asking you about your feelings you'd be stumped for weeks," John muttered under his breath which earned him a glare from his friend.

Abigail, who just happened to take yoga several times a week, employed her deep breathing exercises. Otherwise there would've been another murder to solve. "And, before you say it, I didn't send the letter to myself. Just tell me something Mr. Boy Genius…"

"That is Mr. Man Genius to you thank you very much."

"Fine Man-Cub…" John rolled his eyes. He should've nipped the mutual snarking in the bud just as it started but John had to admit it was quite amusing watching them two go at it. It had been a long time since he'd seen somebody hold their own against Sherlock. If the woman wasn't clearly happily married (yes, he noticed the wedding ring too), he would've been asking this lovely lady out for dinner. "…why was this sent to me?"

"How the bloody hell am I supposed to know?"

"Isn't it your job to find out?"

"Actually," John offered. "We don't get paid for this."

"You subject yourself to torture for fun?" She directed the question to Watson.

"If we got paid we'd be nothing but whores." Sherlock said, proud that he wasn't a whore. "I am not a whore."

"I can see that. How can virgins be whores?"

"I'll have you know…"

"Ok, that's it…" John stepped closer to Abigail. "As you can see, he's in one of his moods. You're only pissing him off more."

"Fine. Then give me back the letter and I'll be on my way."

Sherlock sent her a look of indignant confusion. "Excuse me?"

"Yes. Give me the letter. You have yet to prove to me you are a real detective who can actually handle this case. Until you do I'm going…" John gasped as Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"Tell me, Mrs. Turner, why did you become a fashion designer? You graduated with a criminal justice degree from a New England University. You don't find too many of Britain's finest designing the force's jumpers as they are busting crack heads."

Abigail's eyebrow rose as she studied the man, whose peacock feathers were unfurling as he strutted his intellectual machismo. "And why not a fashion design degree? There's nothing wrong with that."

Sherlock snorted in such a manner that would've surely vexed Mycroft. He was regretful that his big brother wasn't there to hear it. "Because nobody goes to a prestigious, competitive East Coast American university to earn a fashion design degree. Your accent suggests you've spent several years in New England. You are British but you went abroad for your degree. Nobody travels abroad for something as shallow as a fashion degree." Abigail scowled at that as Sherlock screwed his forehead in concentration. "You clearly display reasoning that falls in line with investigative deduction. That tells me you studied the criminal sciences. And you went to University abroad because that's what kids who want to escape their parents do. But that's not true; you are very close to your parents. The ring on your right pinkie finger is a purity ring, given to you by your parents. You hold them in very high regard. The ring means you're Catholic or devout to some such restrictive religion. My guess the ring was a gift at a baptism or some obscenely idiotic ritual."

Abigail stood rooted in her spot, a faint smile on her lips. "I'm not Catholic and the purity ring had nothing to do with religion. Since you don't care about the reason for the ring I see no need to share it with you. And yes, I did graduate with a criminal justice degree from Endicott College in Massachusetts." She left it at that.

Sherlock spread his hands and wiggled his fingers. "And…?"

"And what?"

"How did you go from putting people into prison jumpsuits to designing them?"

All she did was grin and Sherlock's nostrils flared. This made Abigail laugh. "That wasn't really investigative work Mr. Holmes. You're an observer. It doesn't mean you are actually any good at being a detective. There's an American television show about a guy who consults with the police. His powers of investigation are equivalent to yours except, well, he's a LOT hotter than you are." She leaned forward. "The Australian actor does a very good American accent too." Sherlock's cheekbones tensed and his jaw locked. John looked a bit scared; he'd never seen his friend act like that. John knew Abigail was skating on very, VERY thin ice.

"What's your point Mrs. Turner?"

She never took her eyes off of Sherlock's as she pointed to the letter. "I DARE you to break that code, and break it…" She looked down at her watch. "…by 10 a.m. tomorrow morning. If you can do it I'll tell you anything you want, including my bra size."

"36 DD." Her eyebrow rose and John's eyes went straight to her breasts. "Please. Give me something more difficult. I once correctly deduced the measurements of a naked woman."

"How do you know they were correct?"

"Her safe opened." Abigail's mouth opened like a guppy then closed. "Fine. I will have the letter decoded by tomorrow and you'll tell me the rest of your story."

"Is my story really worth it?"

"No but that's not the point." Sherlock waved her toward the door. "I'm done with you. Be off insignificant peasant."

She smirked and turned on her heel, throwing over her shoulder, "I'm not so insignificant if I get your g-string in a bunch." With that she was out the door, leaving a fuming (but curious) detective and his gobsmacked best friend.

SHERLOLLY***SHERLOLLY***SHERLOLLY

Once Abigail Turner was across town she pulled out her mobile phone and rung a number she knew by heart but didn't keep in her phone's memory. "It's done."

"Are you on your secure cell phone?" The gruff American voice that Abigail knew so well filled her ear.

"Of course I am. You didn't train an idiot."

"I know." The man paused. "Very good. Did Holmes suspect?"

"Absolutely. He's Sherlock Holmes. But he's got too much of a mystery on his hands to worry about who I really am, at least for the time being. He'll find out soon enough anyway." She sighed. "He's the world's biggest prick but he's very good. I've got him distracted though. I gave him until 10 a.m. tomorrow to figure out the letter."

"Do you have any idea where the letter came from?"

"I'm still working on that. I have a couple of theories but Falcon's too elusive. Frankly I feel like the theories I'm coming up with are from outer space. Nobody's any closer to knowing who he is now than when Georgie was killed thirteen years ago." Abigail sighed. "But if only I had known what was going down, Samantha… err, Satin… would have still been alive."

"I know Abigail. But you said it yourself: we need Holmes. It was why we didn't give the letter to our guys to decipher. Holmes needs to be in on the case every step of the way. While the eyes of everybody, including Falcon, are on him we'll be working to bring him and his network down."

"Any luck with the guy pulled out of Hooper's flat?"

"Not yet. There are no fingerprint matches and nothing is coming up anywhere. It's like the man's a massive ghost but I'll let you know if we get anything." The male voice paused. "We can't compromise your safety or your identity. We have to keep this investigation at arm's length. That is why we went to Holmes in the first place." Abigail yawned and rubbed her eyes. "Go to your photo shoot. You still have your cover job to do. I'll be in touch."

"Right."

**A/N: As the author I feel I must apologize for Sherlock's stereotypical characterization of, well, lots of things. He was just as insulting to me, the author of this fan fiction, as he was to the people he insulted. He was ceaselessly calling me names and I came unbelievably close to kicking him in the nads. But he survived for another day and there will be chapters after this one. Thanks again for reading! **


	12. Chapter 11

**DISCLAIMER: The characters in this story that you can find in your Sherlock Box Set are the property of Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I am not making any money, nor are they hocking my products (which I have none). I don't get anything from this except the pure enjoyment of writing!**

**This story is un-betaed. **

Chapter 11

"_Any luck with the guy pulled out of Hooper's flat?"_

"_Not yet. There are no fingerprint matches and nothing is coming up anywhere. It's like the man's a massive ghost but I'll let you know if we get anything." The male voice paused. "We can't compromise your safety or your identity. We have to keep this investigation at arm's length. That is why we went to Holmes in the first place." Abigail yawned and rubbed her eyes. "Go to your photo shoot. You still have your cover job to do. I'll be in touch."_

"_Right."_

…..

That night, Molly had decided to turn in early. It had been a hectic day and, after the awkwardness of the dinner with Lestrade and the lack of sleep from the night before, she was practically the walking dead. Molly grabbed Toby, who had made himself at home in the strange dwelling (rather unusual for the affectionate but somewhat finicky kitty), and shut and locked her door. With a sigh, she began undressing. When she got to completely naked, she suddenly felt The Presence. Nearly shrieking, she shrugged on the nearest item of clothing she could find, the button down collar shirt she had worn that day, and wrapped her arms around herself before turning to find Sherlock sitting on the bed, his eyes roaming her body, his breathing shallow and quick.

"For the love of God, you've got to stop doing that!" She kept her voice low as to not alert Lestrade. She really didn't want to bring him into all of this. If she could get Sherlock out without Lestrade's knowledge, it would be just that much easier for everybody.

"Do you know an Abigail Turner?" Sherlock's eyes were riveted to her erect nipples, piercing nearly through the shirt and above the arms that didn't quite cover them.

But she did nothing make herself more modest. The simple fact that she knew she was torturing him, and deliberately not doing anything to ease his seeming suffering, just gave her that much more enjoyment. But when her brain shifted to what he said Molly dropped the torture and gave him an odd look. "Of course I do. Her husband is a work colleague. Why?"

Sherlock gave her a frank look before catching her eye. "She came to Baker Street with a letter and a feather." Molly gasped. "It was mailed to her but directed at our investigation."

"Why did she get it?"

"That seems to be the million dollar question. The only connection between Michelle Livingston and Abigail Turner is you. She said she never met them before."

"I doubt they had met. It wasn't like I invited the neighborhood when I had work colleagues over." Molly groaned, sat on the bed beside Sherlock, and covered her face with her hands. "Why is this suddenly about me? I didn't do anything."

"This isn't about you but it could be about something you know. Think. Did Michelle tell you anything strange or contrary to what you knew of her? Did she ever hint to anything out of the ordinary? Did you ever notice any activity that seemed out of place?"

Molly took a moment to think, something that Sherlock appreciated. So many people automatically just say 'no' then miss something that could be vital. After a few moments she shook her head. "No. They were a very ordinary family. He was gone a lot for work but when he was in town, from what I could see, he was a very good father. Stella, the daughter, was very beloved by both parents. Eric and Michelle seemed to truly love each other. And they genuinely liked each other, something that doesn't always come with love. Michelle was quirky in her own way but that was why we loved her. She was great fun at parties. Very smart too."

"Molly, did you know that Michelle was in the Witness Protection Program?"

This alarmed the woman. "She was?"

"I think so. I haven't heard back from Mycroft but it is possible that Michelle was a stripper from Kansas City before she became Mother of the Year in London."

This completely surprised Molly. "Are you serious?!" Sherlock nodded, doing his best to be on his best behavior. Molly shook her head. "I won't believe that until you show me definite proof. That is completely different from what I know of her. I…"

KNOCK, KNOCK. "Molly? Are you alright?" Greg's question held a note of concern.

Molly made a shooing motion to the cupboard. "Get in there."

"Why?"

"Molly? Is somebody in there?"

"No Greg!" She yanked Sherlock's arm and pulled him toward the hiding place. "I'm on the phone. Hold on!" Sherlock opened his mouth to argue but she slammed the door and leaned against it. "Stay in there and be quiet!" Molly hissed then, grabbing her mobile, she marched to the bedroom door and flung it open. "Greg! I am sorry to bother you but…" She waved the mobile in the air. "…I was having a heated discussion with… my…" Greg's eyebrow lifted with curious disbelief. "…my…"

"Lover." Sherlock flung the door open and dramatically waltzed out, still wearing his coat and flaring it for emphasis. "Do you mind? We were having a private conversation."

"HOLMES!" Lestrade's eyes flashed. "What the bloody hell are you doing in my house?"

"I'd like to 'do' your houseguest but I take it that isn't allowed?" The tone was antagonistic laced with sarcasm. Molly suspected he only said it to get a reaction from the older man.

"SHERLOCK!" Molly roared as Lestrade yelled, "HOLMES!"

"What? So that's a social no-no? It's frowned upon to have sexual congress with your houseguest when you really want to do her yourself?"

"Sherlock, WHY must you do this? Why do you make every situation awkward and difficult?"

"What did I do?" He seemed genuinely confused. "I stated a fact. Since when is that wrong?"

Lestrade opened his mouth to argue when the phone on his hip rang. Narrowing his eyes he pointed at Sherlock but answered the phone. "What?" Lestrade's eyes quickly widened. "Say that again." Molly looked at Sherlock who was studying the DI rather intently. "Holy shit. When was it discovered?" Sherlock's eyebrow rose as he quickly looked at Molly then back at the police man. Lestrade closed his eyes as he continued listening to the other end. "It will take several days to make a positive identification but fine. Tell them I'll be on my way." Lestrade clicked the smartphone off and threw it across the room, landing on Molly's bed.

"What is it Greg?" Molly's soft words tended to soothe the man which was needed at the present.

Lestrade wiped his face with his hand. "The body of Eric Livingston was found in a hotel room in Zurich. He'd been strangled and set on fire…"

"Fire?" Sherlock sounded confused.

"Oh my… oh my…" Molly began sobbing and Lestrade caught her just before she hit the floor. He carefully led her to the bed where she sank down on the edge and held her head in her hands, sobbing with the pain of the situation. Both Greg and Sherlock watched her, both seemingly unable to help her, not knowing what to do.

Sherlock, needing to think this situation through, began pacing. "Lestrade, focus. A fire?"

Greg, still watching Molly who was calming down, slowly nodded. "There was a feather taped to the outside of the door of the hotel room. The police said the fire was a very controlled burn, only scorching the rug around the body. It was enough to set off the sprinkler in the room, quickly putting out the fire. Hotel personnel found the body when their sprinkler alarm went off."

"Is it positive it's Livingston?" Sherlock continued pacing, his mind going in different directions. Molly watched him as she dried her tears.

"We won't know for sure until we get the DNA results. Zurich is handling the testing. They said they will rush the results through. We could know that in a day or two. But the room was registered to Eric Livingston, who was there for a conservation convention. Some personal effects were found as well, including his jewellery." Lestrade looked at Molly. "If we brought you his personal effects would you be able to identify them?"

She shrugged then sniffled. "Perhaps. I can tell you what he wore every time I saw him. Michelle had a pinkie ring made for him, with hair from Stella's first haircut inside. It is a very unique ring and I would recognize it immediately…" Molly put a lot of effort into making sure she didn't break down again. Crying in front of the man who thought tears were insignificant was a real shitty situation for Molly. "…every time I saw him he wore it, either on his finger or a chain around his neck. If you find that ring it's a sure bet the body is Eric's." Molly sniffled. The thought of losing another dear friend, in the short space of a few days, made her sick with disgust. She gasped lightly when she felt Sherlock stop beside her and place a gentle hand on her right wrist, rubbing the inside with his slightly calloused fingers. She looked up at him and caught his fleeting glance before he looked at Lestrade, anger and frustration lining his face.

"But the way the victim was killed doesn't fit the pattern of Falcon's known killings. It's more likely the person who killed Eric knew him personally and held a grudge, in which case Falcon wouldn't responsible."

Lestrade shrugged. "Or the victim isn't Eric and it's completely unrelated to our case."

Sherlock returned to pacing, his great coat billowing in his wake. "And the feather on the door? That isn't just some big coincidence? It just doesn't make sense."

"Perhaps Livingston faked his death?"

"But why would he do that? People who lose their partners or spouses don't fake their own deaths. They commit suicide."

"Unless he killed her."

Molly looked at him in horror. "Are you serious Greg? You didn't know him. The man could have easily killed anybody in defense of his family but he was simply not capable of cold blooded murder. In fact I talked to him earlier today…"

"You did?" Sherlock stopped pacing. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't get the chance. He was frantic and told me he would let me know when he could get in. When Eric called back he had clearly been crying but couldn't get a flight. The earliest one he could get was tonight." Molly sighed and began crying even harder. "…and he was too late…"

"Sherlock," Lestrade himself began pacing. "…the feather taped to the door would be deliberate if setting the victim on fire was part of the plan to begin with. Otherwise, what's the point of leaving a feather if it'll catch fire?"

"But where were your men? Huh? You knew where he was, at least you said you did."

"I don't know but I'm going to find out. That's why I'm going to Zurich."

"And I'm coming with you."

Lestrade looked at Sherlock in horror. "No you aren't."

"Yes I am. I've been pulled even more into this mystery." Sherlock produced the letter for Lestrade to study. "A friend of Molly's paid me a visit today. She received this letter in the mail along with this feather…" He held up the feather and Greg gasped. "So now I'm in this as much as you are. And I need to see the crime scene."

Lestrade sighed then nodded. "Fine. I'll get somebody to stay with Molly…"

"No, she's coming with us." Sherlock stated in a tone that suggested he thought Lestrade was crazy for not considering it sooner.

"What?!" Both onlookers shrieked.

"Molly…" Sherlock took Molly's shoulders in both his hands and looked deeply in her eyes. He needed to ignore the tears in her eyes and the sadness of the big brown orbs in front of him. He never knew puppy dog eyes could be so effective… "We may need you to identify him. Can you do that?" Molly's head cocked at Sherlock's question as she stared him in the eye. It was almost… almost… like he cared or something. Before she could analyze it further, Lestrade's ranting interrupted the somewhat poignant moment.

"I don't know what kind of a heartless bastard you are but to ask the friend of the deceased to visit the crime scene and identify the body…"

"Yes Sherlock, I will come with you."

"What?!" Lestrade snapped but didn't get a response as Sherlock took a few moments to silently contemplate her then, in a huff, walked around the adults and shouted from the hallway, "Hurry up! We've got a body to identify and we need to pick up John! Hurry!"

**A/N: Thanks again for reading! You folks are lovely, lovely people! **


	13. Chapter 12

**Here's an extra-long chapter for you. It's shaping up to be a very busy weekend and I won't be able to post. However, the original chapter 12 was half the size so I combined two to give you a better posting. The next chapter will be around Tuesday or Wednesday. **

**DISCLAIMER: The characters in this story that you can find in your Sherlock Box Set are the property of Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I am not making any money, nor are they hocking my products (which I have none). I don't get anything from this except the pure enjoyment of writing!**

**This story is un-betaed. **

Chapter 12

"_I don't know what kind of a heartless bastard you are but to ask the friend of the deceased to visit the crime scene and identify the body…" _

"_Yes Sherlock, I will come with you."_

"_What?!" Lestrade snapped but didn't get a response as Sherlock took a few moments to silently contemplate her then, in a huff, walked around the adults and shouted from the hallway, "Hurry up! We've got a body to identify!"_

…..

"Oh Mary…" John groaned and arched his hips toward the woman who had his manhood between her extremely talented lips. And tongue. His fingers weaved through her hair as he gasped, trying to regulate his breathing so that he didn't come in her mouth. Mary hummed with approval and wrapped long fingers around the base of his shaft, rubbing her thumbs over his sensitive balls. "Mary… I can't…"

With a POP! she withdrew her mouth and crawled over him. Quickly grabbing the condom he held out, she dressed him and slid down, eliciting groans and sighs from the both of them. John was very happy she didn't start slow. It was happening very quickly and just before he hit his crescendo his phone rang. It rang the very distinctive ring John had designated specifically for Sherlock. John lost himself in his orgasm, forgetting about the ringing phone. When Mary came down from her high, she collapsed against him and sighed with relief and amazement.

"John, if I'd known sex with you was like this I wouldn't have waited."

He chuckled with pride. "And Sherlock thought I haven't asked you out yet. I can't wait to see the look on his face when he realizes we've been dating for several months."

Mary placed her hands on his chest and settled her chin on them. "I thought he was The Master of Deduction. That's what the papers said, anyway."

"You mean after they came just short of apologizing for being completely wrong and printing absolute rubbish about him?" John's comment was angry.

Mary studied him. After all the shit she'd heard about Sherlock, all the frustration he'd caused her boyfriend, it was clear that John was absolutely devoted, and loyal, to his best friend. And she knew that Sherlock felt the same way about him. But the complexities of their relationship left Mary shaking her head. It was something she didn't understand… and a relationship she would never try to get in the middle of. She was too far gone on John and she didn't want to screw it up. Mary caressed his chest, smiling as she watched her fingers give him goose pimples all over. "So will I ever meet him?"

"At your own risk." Mary smirked but sighed when the phone rang again. John rolled his eyes but put a finger to his lips for her to keep quiet. "What is it Sherlock?"

PAUSE. "So you finally had sex with the lovely Miss Morstan."

"Wait! I thought you told me to start dating her and avoid the Tesco!"

"You really thought I didn't know about your relationship? Should I be hurt that you have so little faith in me or flattered I can still fool you?"

"What do you want?"

"Oh and the afterglow hasn't worn off yet. I'm really good at this."

"Congratulate yourself later. Tell me what you want." John's teeth were clenched and Mary held back a snort of laughter.

"Eric Livingston was found dead in Zurich. He was set afire and a feather was found taped to the outside of the room. I don't believe it is him but I want to investigate. And I need you."

"Why don't you think it's Livingston?"

"Because the cause of death doesn't match any of Falcon's known killings."

"Ok, so why do you need me then?"

"Because I need an assistant. And you aren't asinine."

"Oh Sherlock, you never fail to make me feel better." John smirked and sat up, running his hand through his hair. Mary sat up beside him, wrapping the sheet around her. "Fine. But I'm sure we won't be leaving until tomorrow. Are there any flights to Switzerland this late at night?"

"Mycroft is taking us."

"Does he know this?"

John could hear Sherlock grinning. "Not yet."

John rolled his eyes. The petty childishness between the two brothers, while fun to watch at times, was almost self destructive. "So… what? Are we going to descend on his house or something, wake him out of bed?"

"Mycroft owes me information."

John leaned down and picked up his pants. "Where do I meet you?"

"Baker Street. Molly and Lestrade are coming as well."

"What? Why?"

"Enough chit chat." CLICK. Sighing, John closed his eyes and tapped his head with the phone, as if to knock some sense into himself. He opened his eyes and looked at Mary who was watching him intently.

"You have to leave don't you?" John nodded.

"I am so sorry Mary. I promise I…"

Mary shook her head and took his face into her hands. "I know you're sorry but don't make promises. Your best friend is a self-possessed egomaniacal prick…"

"Wow. You're just as good at deduction as he is!"

She chuckled. "…but he's a huge part of your life and I would never, ever dream of coming in the middle of you two. I will support you however I can, and know I'll be here for you, but you do need to find a balance, if only for the sake of your own sanity. You are too good to Sherlock but you deserve your own life." Mary smiled when he sighed and leaned down to rest his forehead against hers.

"Mary, I think you are better than Sherlock and I combined."

"You're just now realizing it? Perhaps you need to get Sherlock to teach you some deduction skills…"

"Oh you…" Mary laughed as she ducked his attempt to hit her with a pillow.

SHERLOLLY**SHERLOLLY**SHERLOLLY

As Sherlock, Lestrade and Molly arrived at Baker Street, they opened the door of the taxi, without getting out, and found John waiting on the curb. Sherlock smirked as he scanned his friend. "Oh yeah. It would seem your lady friend has a very talented mouth."

John reddened but stared Sherlock in the eye. "Are we going now?"

"Yes. Get in."

John slammed the door behind him as he settled beside Sherlock. He took in the scene around him then looked at Sherlock. "And you're welcome."

Sherlock looked confused. "For what?"

"I have your passport." Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked out the window. But John wasn't done. "You know, it's a bit heartless to force the friend of the victim to identify the body, especially if she doesn't want to." He looked at the woman in question. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Yes. I want to help. I can't sit on the sidelines, powerless. Besides, they can't leave me without protection."

"I don't exactly agree with this arrangement; I do have a whole police force at my disposal. They can look after her," Lestrade sent a worried look at Molly. She tried to reassure him but it wasn't working. John looked at Sherlock who was watching Molly the entire time. And John knew it. Sherlock didn't want to let her out of his sight. He's bringing her along so he could take care of her! Well, this was a development he wasn't quite prepared for. For once listening to his intuition in matters of Sherlock, John wisely kept his mouth shut. Embarrassing Sherlock in front of Molly was not the way to handle the situation.

"Greg, think of this as an adventure. I've never been to Zurich. I only have one request."

"What's that?"

Molly grinned. "I want some Swiss chocolate." Sherlock rolled his eyes again but John noticed the tiny smirk in the corner of his mouth.

SHERLOLLY**SHERLOLLY**SHERLOLLY

"It's done Camel." Falcon said as Camel picked him up from Heathrow.

"Livingston's dead?"

"Yes. Any further developments?"

"It looks like Holmes, Watson, Lestrade…"

"Who is Lestrade?"

"The investigator in charge of the case."

"Hmmm…"

"…and the Hooper woman are all flying to Zurich."

"Why Hooper?"

Camel shrugged as he swerved into the horrendous traffic leading out of Heathrow. "My guess would be to identify the body. She was close friends with both of them."

"Yes I know." Falcon gave Camel a tiny smirk but turned back to look at the road ahead of them. "I set him on fire Camel."

Camel's eyebrow rose. "Tell me again why you had to be the one to kill him? You never pull any triggers."

"To make sure the job was done right. Good help is so hard to find."

"That is not your usual MO. Why would you want to draw more attention to it?"

"I realize that but it will distract them from what we need to do next."

"Which is…?"

"Patience my friend. Patience." Falcon paused. "I don't have all the pieces together yet. But when they are I will tell you what is next. Camel, it will be a glorious thing."

When they reached a traffic signal Camel turned to the man in the car with him. "Do you ever wonder…?"

Falcon's eyebrow rose as he looked at the man. "Wonder what?"

Camel opened his mouth then closed it. "Nothing boss. I was simply woolgathering." When the light changed he pulled into traffic once again. "When do we go back to Kansas City?"

"You don't like the United Kingdom?"

"It's not that but…" Camel sighed. He might as well tell Falcon what's bothering him; he always, somehow, manages to find out. "…I think Janey's pregnant."

Falcon's eyebrow rose. "Who?"

"Tommy's little sister Janey."

"Ohhh…" Falcon nodded. "The hot little blonde I've seen you with?" Camel nodded. "I didn't know you were dating her."

"Not really dating. More like…"

"Fuck buddies?"

Camel winced. For as tough of a guy that Camel was (and given his kill record the man had no qualms about taking somebody out), he was astonishingly sensitive about decorum when it came to discussing his love life. Even if the person in question was simply a fuck buddy. "Yes. Ever since Lizzy's death I…"

Falcon nodded. "I know my friend. You don't have to say it. I'm just glad the bastards that killed her got what they deserved."

Camel nodded then sighed. "Yes. Revenge is sweet. Um, Janey's going to the doctor today."

Falcon paused. And, like Camel, Falcon had a soft side that only certain people saw. Sure, when in public the man had perfect manners and would absolutely help little old ladies across the street or even the occasional cat stuck in a tree, but it was compartmentalized and could quickly and easily be shut off, along with the feelings that went with it. It's what made Falcon the perfect criminal mind. And deadly. Falcon could easily see that Camel hadn't come to terms with his wife's death. "How do you feel about it?"

"I don't know. Lizzy and I wanted kids and I do want kids but…"

"…not with Janey?" Camel shook his head. "Well, my friend, don't stay with her if you don't want to but take responsibility for your dick. If the kid is yours you have to support it."

"I know. I won't marry her for the sake of the kid. I know that she doesn't want to get married and it's not fair to the kid to force us to get married but I will support the child. And I will be there for it."

Falcon smiled and slapped the man on the back. "And I'll do whatever I can to make sure you are there for them both. You are my best friend and best friends take care of each other, right?"

SHERLOLLY**SHERLOLLY**SHERLOLLY

When the group got to Mycroft's home they got out of the taxi and stood in front of the closed gate while Sherlock rung his brother. "What do you want?" Mycroft's greeting was rather abrupt, for him.

"My dear older brother, you seem rather snippy this evening."

"I will repeat: What do you want?"

"We need the jet."

"Who's 'we'? Manchester United? The Spice Girls? One Direction? The Scooby Gang?"

"Why Mycroft, I had no idea you were so hip to the younger generation. What's next? Are you going to tell me that you like bacon tetris?"

"What?"

"You are so 2001." Sherlock rolled his eyes. _"Bacon tetris?"_ John mouthed to the others who simply shrugged in confusion. "Fine. If you must know, John, Molly, Lestrade and myself need to fly to Zurich because…"

"Since when do you need to go to the Livingston crime scene?"

Sherlock's eyebrow rose. He knew that the 'minor' position that Mycroft held wasn't quite so minor but that was FAST. "Did they call you before Lestrade?"

"Just about. And why would Molly being going?"

"Because she's the closest person to the victim. We need her for a positive identification."

"And it couldn't have waited until the body was back in the UK?"

"If the victim was Swiss it wouldn't be going back to London…"

"…and if the victim was Swiss there would be no need for Molly's identification." Mycroft paused. "…or…" Sherlock could hear him grinning. "I know she moved in with Lestrade so he can keep an eye on her." Sherlock rolled his eyes at the glee in his older brother's voice. "But you wanted to keep an eye on her, didn't you? You don't trust the police to do their jobs?"

"You owe me some information Mycroft. It's been a whole day since I gave you the request. It's not like you to wait so long."

"I was waiting for you to come to me but, then, you've been distracted because another dog has your bone." Sherlock was inexplicably mad that Mycroft compared Molly to a bone. Since he didn't want to talk about it in front of the others, Sherlock avoided answering.

"Mycroft we are standing outside your gate. Are you going to let us in or not? It's bloody cold out here."

"I know where you are and I know how cold it is. I'm warm and you aren't; why would I make you any more comfortable?"

"This is unbelievable…" Sherlock clenched his teeth.

"I'll let you in under one condition…"

"And what would that be?"

"You bring me the letter you got from Abigail Turner."

Sherlock decided to play dumb. "Who?" He could almost hear Mycroft's eyes rolling.

"Stop playing dumb Sherlock. You're too smart for that. The letter she got in the mail. I know you're carrying it. I want to see it."

"Why?"

"Do you know who she is?"

"She's a friend of Molly's. She's a fashion designer but seems to know something about law enforcement." Sherlock looked at Molly who was throwing him a confused look.

"And you haven't worked out yet who she really is?"

"No."

Mycroft sighed. "You better work out your personal problems, Sherlock. You're slipping." BUZZ! The iron gates opened. "You are going to want to hear this."

**A/N: I found 'bacon tetris' on Urban Dictionary. Here's the definition from UD…**

"**The act of arranging bacon strips on a frying pan in the most efficient way possible given the dimensions of your pan. The goal is to maximize the number of bacon strips on the heating surface without leaving any part of any strip uncooked."**

**For some reason it just seemed to fit for that scene. **smirk****

**Thanks again for reading! I do appreciate it!**


	14. Chapter 13

**DISCLAIMER: The characters in this story that you can find in your Sherlock Box Set are the property of Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I am not making any money, nor are they hocking my products (which I have none). I don't get anything from this except the pure enjoyment of writing!**

**This story is un-betaed. **

Chapter 13

"_And you haven't worked out yet who she is?"_

"_No."_

_Mycroft sighed. "You better work out your personal problems, Sherlock. You're slipping." BUZZ! The iron gates opened. "You are going to want to hear this."_

…..

Abigail Turner leaned against the door of her flat with a sigh and threw her keys on the foyer table. She was very happy her "husband" had the late shift these past few months. At least, that was what she was telling people.

In reality, Thomas Winthrop, devoted husband of Abigail Turner, fellow morgue attendee and work colleague of Molly Hooper, was really an undercover CIA agent, working to infiltrate an international organ harvesting scam seemingly working out of St. Bart's. That was the extent of the knowledge Abigail had about 'Thomas Winthrop's' work. In fact she didn't even know his real name. They used each other for cover and they were roommates. What she did know was enough for her to realize that Thomas' real husband wouldn't have been too keen on him doing anything else with Abigail. If he'd known anything about Thomas' real identity.

Juggling lies could be so hard sometimes.

Changing personas to keep her true profession hidden was could be very tiring, and it was something she noticed was becoming more difficult the deeper the cover became. It was hard enough to keep her work secret from her 'husband' but, then, Thomas had his own share of problems keeping his sexual orientation a secret from the CIA. Thomas had no idea what the CIA would've done had they known but he wasn't about to take any chances. And he didn't want to lose Kyle so, in his mind it was easier to keep lying to the man. How long he could keep that up, she didn't know and she didn't want to see the fall out.

With a sigh Abigail took her Chinese takeaway to the kitchen, grabbed a wine glass, a bottle of her favorite red, the food and some utensils, and kicked off her shoes as she stumbled to the sofa. Just as she was opening the takeaway box her private mobile phone rang. Without looking at the caller ID since only one group of people knew that number, she answered, "Turner."

"Good evening Mrs. Turner. Or, should I say Miss Rachel Brooks." The voice was smooth and too serious to take lightly.

"Who?"

"That is your real name isn't it? Rachel Brooks?"

Abigail was suddenly very nervous. "Who is this again?"

CHUCKLE THEN PAUSE. "Did you get my letter?"

"How did you get this number?"

"If you knew everything that I was capable of, the fact that I know this is your official, secure and private Marshal cell phone would be the least of your worries. After all, I know your real name."

Abigail suddenly wished she had something stronger than wine. Schooling her breathing with her yoga method, she was happily surprised her voice remained calm. "Alright, so you sent the letter."

"Very good. And I know you gave it to Mr. Holmes. Did you keep a copy?"

"Of course I did. I am a government agent; I know how this works."

"Yes you are Marshal Brooks, I mean Turner. A United States government agent with a British accent. You were born in Kentucky, correct?" Abigail didn't answer so the man continued. "But your British father and American mother moved you to London when you were three weeks old."

"Well, I'm impressed. You seem to know an awful lot about me but I'm at the disadvantage. I know nothing about you."

"Yes, funny how that works. But what I don't know, or understand, is why you would go back to the States to become a Marshal."

"As your American children would say, that's for me to know and for you to find out."

SNORT. "You were with the Marshal's service several years before you were transferred to the international sector. Not much of a leap really. You'd become Samantha Clifton's, aka Satin N. Lace, handler and you moved Eric and Michelle, as she was being called by that time, to London. You were instrumental in the Livingston's move to London though Eric never knew who you really were. In fact, Michelle herself never really knew who you were, did she?"

"What do you mean? Of course she did."

The man avoided the question. "I do know you were never happy about her marriage to Eric Livingston. Why is that?"

"Does it matter? Michelle's dead."

"Oh, didn't you hear? Eric's dead too." Abigail groaned and nearly spilt her drink. "Yeah, poor guy. Poor stupid, passive Eric. The police know he died in his hotel room in Zurich. The police are good but certainly not the best. They don't know everything."

"What do you mean by that?"

Once again the man avoided the question. "Stop asking questions. Like I'm going to tell you, at least not right now. Don't fuck with me Mrs. Turner. This has to go my way. Do you understand?" Abigail simply grunted an affirmation. "Good girl. By the way does your husband…" She could hear the sarcasm in his voice. "…know what you really do?"

"Of course not."

"But, then, you don't know what he really does either but hey? Gay men make great roommates, don't they? When he is home he makes a hell of a Yorkshire pudding and keeps the flat all spic and span." Abigail hesitated before reacting to the man's speech. How much should she refute? If she said too much she would be giving too much away. If she said too little… "Oh Abigail. Don't think too hard about what you can and can't tell me. I know all about your arrangement. Thomas is a CIA operative, posing as your husband when he really just wants to be at his other house, fucking his British husband, Kyle. Too bad Thomas..." PAUSE. "Do you even know Thomas' real name?" Abigail didn't answer. "I'll take the silence as a no. Then I won't be the one to tell you. It's really a shame that Thomas is away on 'business trips' so much. If he weren't then Kyle wouldn't be fucking the 20-year-old neighbor boy." The man sighed. "It's so hard to maintain household felicity, isn't it?"

"That a big word for such a bad guy." For the first time in her professional career Abigail was growing genuinely scared. She knew she was dealing with a very dangerous individual.

"Tsk, tsk my good Marshal. I must say, you have quite the sweet professional setup here." He paused then chuckled. It was a low, evil chuckle that sent chills down the somewhat hardened agent's spine. "You wouldn't want anything to happen to it, would you?"

"What do you want?"

"Did you give the letter to your bosses?

"No."

"Liar."

"No, it's true. My boss knows about it but I haven't sent him a copy."

"Why?"

"Honestly? I've been too damned busy. Besides…"

"No…" The man's voice was so low it purred. "…you didn't send it because you are afraid. Somebody got to your witness and you don't trust anybody."

"No I don't. And I certainly don't trust you."

"Smart and sexy." Abigail detected the note of admiration in his voice. It sent yet another shiver down her spine. "That's good, real good. Have you tried to decipher it?"

"No."

"Don't you want to know what it says before Holmes figures it out? He's a genius."

"Yes I would like to know before Holmes…"

"Then I will give you a few clues."

Abigail didn't believe the man for one millisecond. "And why should I believe you?"

"You shouldn't but you're dying to know. And it's not like somebody's going to get killed if I give you the wrong way to solve the puzzle." She could hear him smirking over the phone. "Not this time anyway."

"Stop it! It's not a game…"

"Like hell it isn't! It's a game I'm willing to play, at the risk of my own life. Do you know what will happen to me should anybody close to Falcon found out what I have been doing? Camel would rip my heart out and make me eat it."

Abigail's eyebrow rose at this. "Camel? Who is Camel?"

The man paused then chuckled. "Oh that's right. You don't know anything about Falcon's network. I'll give you this much. You'll get more later, if you've been a good girl." Abigail rolled her eyes. "Camel is Falcon's right hand man. You have to go through Camel to get to Falcon. They are as close as brothers, perhaps even closer. Only the two of them really knows what goes on in their network."

Abigail waited for more but when no more came she asked, "And? Is that all?"

"For now. I'm sure that's more than you had in all the years you pursued him, am I correct?"

"How did you know that? How do you know any of this?" When he didn't answer, Abigail prodded in another way. "You work for Falcon don't you?"

"What makes you say that?"

"Oh come on! You gave me part of the hierarchy structure."

"Doesn't mean I work for Falcon."

"You're forgetting the feather with the letter. You're clearly an American, with the lack of accent, use of American jargon and…"

The man chuckled. "You're right. I do know Falcon, as much as somebody who isn't Camel can know him. I do work for him but I know more about him then he thinks I know. I'm so insignificant to him that I'm the last person he would suspect of ratting him out. He's worked so hard to be invisible but even ghosts aren't invisible. He has made a lot of mistakes. I have discovered them. And he will pay for them."

"Why are you telling me all of this?"

"Because, Mrs. Turner, Falcon is planning something that could threaten not only you and the people in WitSec but everybody in the United States, perhaps even across the world."

"That's a bit melodramatic, don't you think?"

"Tell that to Michelle and Eric Livingston." He paused. "I won't tell you any more than that." For the first time since they began talking the man sounded something other than completely in control. Scared perhaps? "Something bad will happen to me if he discovers we talked." It was her turn not to say anything so the man asked, "And if that happened, would you care?"

Confused he would ask such a question she decided to answer honestly. "I'm not sure if I would care or not. I have a feeling you haven't earned the right of any good person's worry."

She could hear the man smirking over the phone. "Damn it I bet you're a good fuck. So feisty. Tell me: are you a natural redhead?"

"Like you'll ever find out." Why was she arguing with this guy? Was it because of the gravity of the situation he put everybody in? Or was it her pride? "Look Mr… what should I call you?"

"Al. Call me Al."

"Al…" It was a name she found utterly ridiculous. "…if this could be so bad for you, why are you doing it?"

"One thing at a time. Work on the letter then I'll tell you more. Here are a few clues to the cipher. 22 lines. Groups of 9. Z before A."

"What does that mean?"

"I'll be in touch." CLICK then a dial tone.

With a sigh Abigail threw the mobile phone on the sofa and leaned back. Her analytical mind, programmed to take pieces of a case and fit them together like a jigsaw, began whirring, trying to place information where she thought it should go. She knew that…

1. The caller was close enough to Falcon that he was privy to information about Falcon and what he was doing but, given that she didn't know the true managerial structure of the organization she couldn't begin to know what this man's position was.

2. Who is this Camel?

3. This Falcon had wronged the caller somehow. Given how easily the man flaunted his criminal prowess, Abigail doubted it was his conscience that made him communicate with her. She just didn't know what it was.

4. The man did have a motive but she knew it wasn't as simple, or as superficial, as a mere game. This could lead to #3.

5. It was obvious he wanted somebody to decipher his cipher. She had a feeling he wanted her to do it, given that he contacted her.

6. The caller certainly had a lot of information about everything and everyone, including herself. How did he get all of that information?

Taking her now cold takeaway to the micro, she set that to reheat as she went to her desk blotter. Pulling it up she retrieved the copy and took it to the coffee table, grabbing a pen. After settling herself with her food, she began reading, making notes as she went. Along the side of the poem she numbered the lines 1 through 22 then drew a line under every 9th line. Looking at the cipher notations she realized she wasn't going to sift through the jumbles; Abigail needed the notations in list form. Copying each cipher in a column, in an order she thought made sense, Abigail was able to work through the information. Quickly the pattern she needed emerged.

An hour later, when she was done and she read the outcome, Abigail really did spill her wine. Grabbing her phone she dialed her boss. Given the time difference she knew he would be available.

"Atkins."

"Charlie, this is Turner."

"Have any more information about the letter?"

"Yes, sir, and you aren't going to like it. We're all in serious trouble."

**A/N: Thank you so much for reading! **


	15. Chapter 14

**DISCLAIMER: The characters in this story that you can find in your Sherlock Box Set are the property of Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I am not making any money, nor are they hocking my products (which I have none). I don't get anything from this except the pure enjoyment of writing!**

**This story is un-betaed. **

Chapter 14

_An hour later, when she was done and she read the outcome, Abigail really did spill her wine. Grabbing her phone she dialed her boss. Given the time difference she knew he would be available._

"_Atkins."_

"_Charlie, this is Turner."_

"_Have any more information about the letter?"_

"_Yes, sir, and you aren't going to like it. We're all in serious trouble." _

…..

"Abigail Turner's a federal agent?!" John asked.

Sherlock sighed and mentally slapped himself. He should've known that from the very beginning. It was right there. Granted the woman was very good at incognito but still…

And Sherlock knew what this meant…

"She's Michelle Livingston's handler." Mycroft said. "She has been from the very beginning."

"That means that whoever sent the letter knew Michelle was in WitSec." Sherlock said, pacing. They were standing in the great hall of Mycroft's palatial townhouse.

"Precisely."

"And if the letter writer, who knows that Michelle was in WitSec, works for Falcon…"

"What else can he know?" Molly finished the thought. To say that Molly was surprised would've been an understatement. The astonishment was acute. Molly felt betrayed and she didn't like that feeling.

"That's the problem Miss Hooper…"

"That's Doctor Hooper." Sherlock squawked at his brother, making both John and Lestrade's eyebrows raise. Molly was too deep in her thoughts to call him out on it. "In the twenty-first century, if you wanted to communicate with somebody, what is the least likely method you would use?"

"Who am I?" John asked and elaborated with Sherlock's quizzical look. "Am I an ordinary citizen?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Fine." John looked at the ceiling. "Let's see… smoke signals?"

"Homing pigeon?" Molly.

"Sky writer?" Mycroft.

"Mail?" Lestrade.

"Exactly." Sherlock pointed to Lestrade, who seemed to be the first to put the pieces together. "Remember who we are talking about. The letter writer works for a ghost syndicate. They don't want to be traced. They don't want to be known. Emails, texts and phone calls can be traced. I would imagine they deal in cash; cheques and credit cards put them on the grid. If they have to be on the grid it would be legitimately and completely above board. The organization would take great pains to avoid making waves. With the scant amount of information we have there is no way we'll know who they are or how they communicate. So, until we know more there's nothing we can do."

"How long will it take to get the plane ready?" John asked.

"Half an hour. Since Sherlock's a pilot…"

"You are?" Molly was, once again, surprised. In the back of her mind she realized she shouldn't have been surprised.

"Yes. I'm also a licensed hypnotherapist and I can juggle five pugs while twirling a flaming baton…"

"Instead of being an asshole about it you could've just said yes and let it be." Molly said, turning her back, clearly disappointed at Sherlock being, well, Sherlock. John's eyebrow rose as he looked at Sherlock who was staring at Molly.

"Well…" Mycroft cleared his throat and pulled out his Blackberry. "…I'll call the airfield to get the plane ready. My suggestion would be to work on that letter."

"Yes Father," Sherlock rolled his eyes but took the letter into the den. He sat at a large mahogany desk and pulled a pad of paper from the middle drawer.

"How do you know your way around my desk?"

"Anybody who has a working knowledge of you, Mycroft, can navigate their way around your desk. It's shameful how transparent you really are." Taking a fountain pen, Sherlock began studying the ciphers written to the side of the verses. Molly, looking over his shoulder, said, "I would put those in order first. It's the easiest way to begin." Biting his tongue he began copying the figures in a column. Everybody looked over the figures for a moment.

"What do you think the underscore between the '1' and the '5' here in this figure means?" Molly asked, her finger lightly caressing Sherlock's handwriting. For some odd reason (call it a freak moment of weakness), Sherlock could feel the texture of her finger against his most sensitive areas. Sudden thoughts of their times together invaded him, holding his cold, analytical side hostage. He closed his eyes and felt her soft lips against his pelvis; her fingernails biting into his shoulder blades as he moved within her; her walls, urgent, hot and strong, encouraging him to take what he wanted.

Sherlock got a strange feeling he needed to eat all the words he used about how illogical the physiological reaction to sexual stimuli made people complete idiots. Squeezing his eyes tightly he coughed and returned to what he was doing.

"Does that mean from 1 to 5 perhaps?" John asked his eyes narrowing as he concentrated.

"Look…" Sherlock quickly engaged his logical brain and began grouping the notations by the first number. "…the ciphers range from 1 to 9. There is one cipher per line. So we know there are 22 lines. And since the ciphers obviously don't correspond with the line they are noted on, they are out of order for a purpose. Probably to add a few more moments of confusion to the deciphering process. Easy enough to put back in order." Sherlock then grouped the ciphers by their first numbers: 1-9; 1-4a and 1-9z.

"But why only 4 lines for a but 9 for z?"

"Another attempt to confuse perhaps?" John asked.

"Yes but which group of numbers belongs where?" Molly asked.

"The only way to determine that is to try different combinations…" Lestrade said.

"We don't have time for that right now," Sherlock said.

"Ok, but we have to know what the other numbers mean."

"That's easy…" Sherlock pointed to the second and third numbers in one of the ciphers. "…one of them is a corresponding word and the other is a letter in the word."

"How do you know this?"

"It's not that hard. This isn't the German Enigma code. I don't think the point was to make it as obscure as possible. I think the point was to delay us for a time."

"Why?"

Sherlock huffed. "Why do you always think I have the answer?"

Molly shrugged. "Because you always have the answer. It's not rocket science."

"Alright, fine Miss Marple. While we are on the plane you figure it out. I'm going to take a nap." Sherlock said as he stalked toward the door.

"You're our pilot dumbass," John chastised.

"Dumbass?"

"Children, please…" Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes. It was going to be a very, very long night…

SHERLOLLY***SHERLOLLY***SHERLOLLY

Atkins was very quiet after Abigail explained what she had discovered.

"Are you absolutely sure?"

"Positive. I'm not a cryptanalyst but I was able to decipher the code. I tried several different combinations and this was the only thing that came back that made sense. Everything else was just gibberish."

"So what are you going to do with this information? I mean, how do we even know that the name revealed in this cipher is correct? Who is Donovan anyway?"

"I don't know yet sir. Give me some time to figure that out."

"Fine. Give this information to Mr. Holmes. He's a powerful ally. He does have that kooky brother of his, Mycroft."

"Kooky? How is Mycroft Holmes kooky?"

"Ok, not kooky per se but very eccentric. An extremely well-connected eccentric. Do what you can to make nice with the Holmes boys. They could prove very helpful in the future."

Abigail sighed. She didn't go into this business to play politics. Unfortunately she played politics more often than she actually did her job. It could be quite discouraging. "Fine."

"See what else you can find out."

"Will do. I'll keep you informed." When they got off the phone she sighed and rubbed her eyes. Abigail, remembering the possibility of a leak in the Marshal's office, at the last minute lied to her boss. She knew it was the only explanation for Michelle's assassination. While she made a living lying, she didn't like lying to her boss. The only person she could truly trust with the truth was Sherlock Holmes.

Grabbing her phone once again she dialed a number she received from her research.

SHERLOLLY**SHERLOLLY**SHERLOLLY

"Who is this?" Sherlock's gruff voice startled the rest of the cabin. They were halfway to Zurich and, Sherlock had to admit, he was a bit cranky. He was not prepared to speak to some random person on the mobile. However, he couldn't seem to resist a call from a blocked number. The suspense was rather interesting but exciting.

PAUSE. "Abigail Turner."

"Ah! US Marshal Abigail Turner. To what pleasure do I owe this phone call?" His tone was so syrupy Molly's teeth began to ache.

PAUSE. "Ever so nice to hear your voice Mr. Holmes. Tell me, how are you this fine night?"

"I would be even better if you were right beside me, whispering sweet nothings in my ear."

"I am on the phone; I can do that right now. They would be low and sweet and I could make you wish I was doing more than just talking."

Sherlock laughed and John pulled his arm. "Would you cut it out? What's going on?" Sherlock waved him off and said into the phone, "I'm sure you could. I'm sure I could teach you a few things as well my sweetness."

"I doubt that. What could a virgin teach me?"

Sherlock growled and asked, "Why are you calling?"

"Hey, you started it."

"No I didn't. You did."

"I did not! You did."

"Yes you did. You called me."

Molly was watching his side of the exchange in horror. She didn't know if she was horrified because he seemed to be flirting with this Mrs. Turner or horrified that he was supposed to be solving a major case and he sounded like a four year old rowing with his older sibling. "For the love of God, Sherlock, shut up and find out what she wants!" Sherlock stared at her, continuously surprised at her growing set of, well, balls. It made his tingle with awareness. _Oh God, I've got no choice. I'm going to have to have sex with her again. If it's the only way to alleviate this problem…_

"Have you figured out the cipher yet Sherlock?"

While Abigail's words didn't, necessarily, break through his sexual haze, it did go a long way to calm him. "I'm a bit busy at the moment."

"Doing what? Jerking off?"

Yep. He was no longer aroused. Mrs. Turner worked wonders for dousing sexual flames. Like a bucket of cold water only without the mess. "That's classy. If you must know I'm flying us to Zurich."

"On your broom?"

"Modern girls use Hoovers now thank you very much."

"Well, it looks like I bested the great Sherlock Holmes. I have figured it out."

"Oh really? Well, isn't that nice. What do you want a medal?"

"I wouldn't mind punching you in the nose."

"Touchy."

PAUSE. "I lied to my boss."

This gave Sherlock pause. "Why?"

"I find myself, rather reluctantly, trusting only you Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I think I should have my head examined but…"

"Probably but, then, there are very few people I've met that don't need their heads examined."

"Well, I'm on my way to Zurich."

"Wait! You can't come to Zurich!"

"Why not?"

"Well…" But Sherlock didn't finish his sentence as he had the phone ripped from his hand by Lestrade.

"Excuse me, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade with New Scotland Yard."

"DI Lestrade! This is Abigail Turner."

"Yes, the US Marshal."

"Please, DI Lestrade, don't say that too loudly. I'm in deep cover…"

"Mycroft Holmes briefed us all on who you are."

"Fantastic." The sarcasm was palpable.

"Listen, Agent Turner, to the outside world you are Abigail Winthrop, fashion designer. If anybody got wind that you were at a crime scene, at a hotel in Zurich, your cover will certainly be blown. Nobody can afford that."

"But that's my jurisdiction! I have the daughter in protection and, as Michelle's husband, he was under my protection as well."

"Not very well, given that he is dead."

PAUSE. "I have every right to be there…"

"No you don't. As a British citizen connected to a British homicide in MY city, it's MY jurisdiction! If you think…"

"But they were BOTH original American citizens! They have dual citizenships. Come on! Can't we work…"

Mycroft took the phone from Lestrade. "Miss Turner…"

"That's MISSUS! And who are you?"

"Mycroft Holmes. From what I understand he's not your husband. He's another man's husband."

GASP.

"Neither of our governments could afford it if you were discovered. Stay home."

"Or what?"

"For the love of all that is good, I live among primary children…" Mycroft could hear the smile over the phone. For some reason this endeared her a bit to him. "…your boss, Charles Atkins, gave me authority over you. Do you want to find out?"

PAUSE. "Fine."

"We'll contact you when we return to London. Cheerio." Mycroft hung up and handed the phone back to Sherlock. "For God's sake, Sherlock, straighten up your women. This is getting ridiculous."


	16. Chapter 15

**READERS: I do apologize for the length of time between chapters. I was finishing a handmade wedding gift and was running EXTREMELY behind. However, the wedding was Saturday (absolutely lovely) and the gift was finished in time. So I have time to write. I also apologize for the short length of this chapter but I wanted to get back into writing again and to get an update out there. So hopefully the next chapter will be much longer, and out this weekend! Thank you once again for reading. I do appreciate it!**

**DISCLAIMER: The characters in this story that you can find in your Sherlock Box Set are the property of Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I am not making any money, nor are they hocking my products (which I have none). I don't get anything from this except the pure enjoyment of writing!**

**This story is un-betaed. **

Chapter 15

"_For the love of all that is good, I live among primary children…" Mycroft could hear the smile over the phone. For some reason this endeared her a bit to him. "…your boss, Charles Atkins, gave me authority over you. Do you want to find out?"_

_PAUSE. "Fine."_

"_We'll contact you when we return to London. Cheerio." Mycroft hung up and handed the phone back to Sherlock. "For God's sake, Sherlock, straighten up your women. This is getting ridiculous."_

…..

Sitting alone in a darkened hotel room, clutching a photo that rarely saw the light of day, a man silently weeps. The photo of the beautiful woman never left his wallet. He couldn't afford others to see his one true weakness. The photo, faded and ragged from the many times he handled it, showed a woman in the prime of her life, her love shining in her eyes, her life full of promise.

It was a promised life that was cut short much too quickly.

The truth of her death wasn't revealed right away. As the widower grieved, he searched high and low for the reason, and those responsible, for her death. And at first there had been no reason. She was beloved by those around her, respected by her peers and appreciated by her coworkers. His family loved her and her family loved him.

It took two years but when the truth was finally revealed, it had been as shocking as her physical death had been. It left him feeling responsible, keeping him up late at night, blaming himself time and again. The truth was revealed in some rather bizarre, roundabout ways. When he learned why she was a potential victim to begin with, the man didn't believe he couldn't have stopped it if he had known and tried. It didn't mean he wouldn't have at least attempted it. But he wasn't sure he would have prevented it anyway because, well, he wouldn't have believed it could have happened.

The physical evidence of her dead body forced him to believe that someone he never thought could betray him did. And it convinced the man her death by his hand was possible. That it could have, and did, happen.

Very soon after learning the truth the wheels of revenge were set in motion. His revenge would be complete. The man smiled as he, once again, went through the plan in his head. He was as good of a liar as the one who betrayed him. Better even, for the revenge had been methodical in its engineering and composition. He was patient. He had always been blessed with an abnormal amount of patience. And it served him well in the work he was in.

No man kills the wife of his twin brother without facing the direst of consequences.

SHERLOLLY**SHERLOLLY**SHERLOLLY

Molly continued working on the cipher until they arrived in Zurich. Just as they landed Molly gasped. "No… that can't be…"

"What?"

She looked at John who had made the inquiry. "It can't be. All this time…"

"Did you figure it out Molly?"

"Yes. You aren't going to believe this…"

"Molly, my dear…" Mycroft's eyebrow rose as Sherlock's use of the endearment. He was positive he'd never heard his brother utter that word before, at least in reference to another person, much less a woman. "…nothing shocks me. I've seen it all. What is it?"

"You have to read this…" She handed the deciphered letter to John whose eyes widened.

"Exactly how did you come about this?" John asked as he handed the letter to Lestrade.

"I tried every combination. This was the only combination that made sense. The first group of nine poetry lines was 1-9; the next group was the 1-9 z and the last was the 1-4 a. It was just enough to throw somebody off temporarily…"

"But perhaps that was the point?" Mycroft suggested, his forehead crinkled with confusion. "But how could anybody not realize this?"

By then the engines had been turned off and Sherlock was completing his landing procedures. They didn't say anything until Sherlock finished. Standing up he stood in front of Molly as she handed him the paper. When he read the answer he was speechless for a moment. The only other time Molly had seen him speechless was the night they took their relationship into the bedroom. He'd been speechless when she used her mouth on him. Shamelessly (only because she'd sworn off him completely), it brought a smile on her face…

Molly grinned. "I can see this surprised you."

Sherlock cleared his throat. To his credit he was forthright about how wrong his earlier statement had been. "Yes but are you sure?"

Molly nodded. "But it would make sense. It's the only way they could know where she was in order to pull off the hit."

Sherlock, nodding, pulled out his phone. He dialed then hit the speaker button. When the person answered, Sherlock bellowed, "Marshal Turner."

"Why, Mr. Holmes. To what do I owe the pleasure of this conversation?"

"Give me a bit more sarcasm Sugar. You aren't syrupy enough…"

"Now, now, Mr. Holmes, there's no need to be like that. Aren't we on the same side?"

"We figured out the letter."

"Isn't that nice? How long did it take you?"

Sherlock ignored her. "So is this message the reason you wanted to go to Zurich?"

"Mostly but Eric Livingston was under my protection."

"Which makes this letter that much more ironic."

"Yeah, the irony is fantastic, isn't it?" Her tone was sarcastic yet tired at the same time. "The real problem is: is that really Eric Livingston, dead in Zurich?"

"Mycroft…" Lestrade turned to the older Holmes. "…I think she needs to be in Zurich. Don't you?"

"In light of this letter…" Mycroft slowly admitted he was wrong. "…yes. She could also help to identify him."

Sherlock decided to cut to the rub. This woman annoyed him; he needed her to know that she truly wasn't in charge. Besides, he needed to throw around his mental prowess. He hadn't been able to lately and it was killing him. "Marshal Turner, what is your boss going to say when he learns that the husband of your witness was the man you were hired to keep her hidden from? I'm sure that discovering that Eric Livingston is, or maybe was, the notorious Falcon puts the jewel right in your professional crown now doesn't it?"


	17. Chapter 16

**READERS: To make up for the lag between the last two chapters I'm gifting you with another chapter. I thought it would be this weekend but I am on a roll with the writing. Don't know when the next one will be out (as I just finished this one!) but keep your eyes peeled.**

**DISCLAIMER: The characters in this story that you can find in your Sherlock Box Set are the property of Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I am not making any money, nor are they hocking my products (which I have none). I don't get anything from this except the pure enjoyment of writing!**

**This story is un-betaed. **

**Chapter 16**

_Sherlock decided to cut to the rub. This woman annoyed him; he needed her to know that she truly wasn't in charge. Besides, he needed to throw around his mental prowess. He hadn't been able to lately and it was killing him. "Marshal Turner, what is your boss going to say when he learns that the husband of your witness was the man you were hired to keep her hidden from? I'm sure that discovering that Eric Livingston is, or maybe was, the notorious Falcon puts the jewel right in your professional crown now doesn't it?"_

…..

"Any theories oh great and powerful Detective?" The lady Marshal snapped back.

"It's quite simple really; I don't know why I didn't think of it before." He looked at Mycroft but spoke into the phone. "The strip club. Mycroft, were you able to track its owner?"

Mycroft shook his head. "No we weren't. In all the years I have held my minor position in the British government…" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "…we've never seen somebody cover their tracks so well. The trail ended at a name and American Social Security number of a man who has been dead for 25 years. Let's assume, for the moment, that it really was owned by Falcon. It would, after all, be the perfect business to 'legitimize' the actions of a criminal. He would have known who serviced the victim that night. He probably video recorded all the sessions."

"So," Molly began. "…if this Falcon really did own the strip club, and this Falcon really did marry the witness to the execution he ordered, how did he find her? And once he found her, how did he get her to marry him? And WHY did he marry her? Only to kill her later?"

"Once the witness is admitted into WitSec…" Abigail, who was still on the line, answered. "…they don't ever go back to their home. They are immediately erased, a bit like the movie though not with as many cool gadgets. We work very hard to ensure that nobody discovers them."

"Have any in WitSec ever been uncovered?"

"Yes but…" Abigail paused then gasped. "…oh no. That's not…"

"What?" John asked.

Abigail sighed over the phone. "Over the years there have been very few witnesses who have been discovered by those people we were hiding them from. Some were accidental but there have been a few moles in the program."

"Moles?" Molly asked.

Abigail sighed again. "There had been a few agents who found the lure of money more important than keeping their witness alive. What you have to remember is that the majority of the witnesses in WitSec aren't as innocent as witnesses to a murder. While she was a stripper, Michelle wasn't involved in criminal activity. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. But the majority of people in the program have done some very bad things. Instead of wanting to change their lives, and get out of their criminal activities, they use WitSec, and the promise of testifying against the criminals, as a means to turn state's evidence in exchange for a lighter or no sentence at all. The prevailing feeling amongst the moles is that these people are bad and it's just one bad person killing another one. Those agents are as low as the people we are protecting our witnesses from. We took this job and we are sworn to do it."

"So what you're saying is that your top-secret witness protection program is as reliable as a diabetic in a chocolate shop?" Lestrade shrugged when everybody looked at him as if he were an insensitive bastard. "What? It's the best I could come up with in such short notice. Not all of us are as brilliant as you Sherlock."

"You're bloody right about that."

"My guess would be that this wasn't an accident." Mycroft said.

Abigail huffed with indignation. "It wasn't my fault. I never talk about my witnesses to anybody. And I'm not the mole."

"I don't believe you are," Sherlock said without a hint of sarcasm. He looked at the phone for a moment. "But I think you suspected something. You gave me the letter to decipher and not your people. Why is that?"

"I needed your help and this seemed the best way to go about doing just that."

"Yes but you went to me first. If you didn't suspect something you would've run home to Daddy first."

"When a witness is murdered while in WitSec custody, everybody is suspicious of everybody. Being suspicious is what makes us so great at our jobs, believe it or not."

"Then how do we determine if there was a mole or not?"

"Dr. Watson, I will need to learn if there is a common relationship between the most recent moles; if they worked with the same people, had the same supervisor. If there is the person or persons in common must be vetted."

"We'll take care of that," Mycroft volunteered.

"In the meantime I am on my way to Zurich. When our job is through there I will be working on the mole connection. It will take time as I have to do this without anybody knowing what is happening. But I'll see you in a few hours." CLICK.

"Oh no…" Molly said, heavily falling into a nearby airplane seat.

"What is it?" Lestrade asked, moving to sit beside her.

"I just can't believe that Eric Livingston is this Falcon. He seemed like such a genuinely nice guy. How could he coldly marry Michelle, make her fall in love with her, make a child, all the purpose of killing her?"

"Molly," Sherlock stood in front of her, at first nervously moving from foot to foot until he took the seat on the other side of her. Much to her surprise he continued. "This Falcon is a psychopath. He has no regard for anybody or anything. Psychopaths don't feel anything but they are charming and they can change themselves to adapt to any situation. Because not only you believed him but so did Michelle, only proves how dangerous he is. I am positive that anybody would have, and did, believe him." Molly sat dumbstruck at what she was hearing. Could Sherlock Holmes actually be comforting her instead of calling her an idiot for believing Falcon? Sherlock turned away when he felt her staring at him. "But the question is: why did he wait this long to kill her? They raised a child for ten years. Could it be to lull her into a false sense of security? Or did Falcon have another plan, one that took this many years to come to fruition?"

Watson was mulling over the situation. "So do you think the body in the hotel is Falcon's?"

"I have no idea John," Sherlock said as he turned to the door of the plane. "But I need to see that body."

SHERLOLLY**SHERLOLLY**SHERLOLLY

RING, RING. RING, RING. Marshal Turner looked away from her packing to her caller ID. Blocked number. Her gut told her to answer the call. "Hello?"

"Good evening once again Marshal Turner."

"Two calls in one night? You must be nervous."

"I gather you deciphered the letter."

"Yes I did. Why are you calling me again?"

"Because you don't have much time Miss Turner."

When he didn't say anything else, Abigail tried another tactic. "If Eric Livingston really is Falcon, and he is dead, why are you doing this? I'm assuming you killed him; why didn't you just leave it at that?"

"Before Falcon died he set in motion a series of events that will destroy not only WitSec but the security of any future participant."

"Why do you care? I'm assuming you're a bad guy. Don't you want the good guys gone?"

"That hurts Abigail. When did you become so hard and cynical?"

"When bastards like you take out witnesses, especially my witness who came to become a very good friend of mine."

"Don't blame me Agent Turner. I am not responsible for Michelle's murder."

Abigail paused. "But why should I believe you, about anything? Why should I believe that Eric Livingston is really Falcon? You haven't provided me with proof. For all I know this is a bloody sick joke."

PAUSE. "You are right. You have no proof. So let me give you some." PAUSE. "Falcon's real name is Alex Slezak. Camel is Alex Slezak's fraternal twin, Aaron. Their shell corporation is the Nestling Corporation. Your Mycroft Holmes was right; the Social Security number belongs to a Nester Coburn. Take down this social security number." She quickly grabbed the notepad she kept beside her bed and scribbled the numbers he rattled off. "Nester Coburn is the step uncle of the Slezak twins. If you want to know why I am doing this, look up April 1993, Emmanuelle Archer in Kansas City." CLICK.

Abigail sat on the bed, stunned with what she was given. Could this be real? How did this man know so much about a criminal organization that seemingly took great pains to ensure their anonymity? This 'Al' said he knew more about Falcon than Falcon realized. Could Falcon, a man who clearly used third persons to do his dirty work, let somebody other than a theoretical (as it hadn't been proven) twin brother get close enough to know so much about him?

Unless…

Abigail's eyes widened at the possibility. Unless this person was as close to Falcon as, say, a fraternal twin brother? Could she really have been talking with this Camel? If so, why is he aiding the police? Not only would this information implicate his twin brother but himself just as well. As far as Abigail knew this Camel, or Aaron Slezak, was in up to his eyeballs. And who is Elizabeth Archer?

Abigail pulled out her laptop and did some quick digging. She found some news articles on Emmanuelle Archer in Kansas City. The news article led Abigail to check her encrypted WitSec database. Sure enough, there was Emmanuelle Archer. Formally Tina Garcia-Benito of Florida, Emmanuelle had been admitted into WitSec after turning state's evidence in the prosecution of some of the leaders of a major drug cartel in Miami. Like Michelle, Emmanuelle was relatively innocent compared to other witnesses. Digging further Abigail found that Emmanuelle was murdered, in April 1993, in a car explosion while living in Kansas City. The interesting aspect of the case was that, after an exhausted investigation, no evidence of a mole, an information leak, or even an accident occurred.

The woman died under highly suspicious circumstances.

Despite all of the information she uncovered, it was what was mentioned, and almost overlooked in Abigail's initial scan of the earliest news story, that sent Abigail scrambling out of her flat, luggage in hand, more anxious than ever to get to Zurich.


End file.
